Sleep like their terrible gods have left you
and obscurity is a passive worry again,
creatures who prefer my dark to the light.
No investments in the temples of time,
no bubbling oversights or official portraits.
All that has clicked to your hammer today,
all that has finished you off as a rosy spectator,
your job, your birdcage, opens onto a bridge
exhaled by the rain of the get-gone.
The golden blood you’ve fancied at work
is cutting off another rare circulation.
I reach over and dial down your tempo.
You don’t want to play that song over here.
You’ve been unconscious all day, sweetie,
and now you need some rest.
This poem originally appeared in Brick and was reprinted in Walschlaeger's new chapbook Waterbaby (click link to purchase from our bookshop!). “Lullaby” is reprinted with the kind permission of the author.
