6.10 a.m.

the floorboards don’t creak
twenty press-ups on the rug
sometimes
no bells can be heard
from the churches
or the parking bays

the question becomes
How are the accidents?

the death of Mercutio

a time to write
when the light is low
the business of words
on paper not yet warmed
by the day

What is it about freight trains
and fallen plums?

Looking up at the ceiling
there are no frescoes
but there is moulding
curved and chalky as bone

Giotto on panels
a foreshortened world
like boxes for holding birds