You, the world, the house,
but tonight you’re not happy.
No-one can sleep this month.
Across the park, the lights are sultry.

So we lie in our dark bed,
naked on a blue sheet,
under shadowy indoor plants —
we're woken by the clock, the street.

Outlined in the buzz of haze
your dancer’s body:
still half-awake I categorise
your alarm of self and place.

For when at last we turn to sleep
in the end of summer dark,
I’ll see you as the white heron
flapping wings of glittering water.