Alien Configuration

For the clerks at St Andrews House 

The world goes to sleep

in a lover’s cotton embrace.

He is awake.

The horizon darkens upon evening,

transmutes into a sinuous dream.

He, like a wire, lies about

conveying current and information

dyed in the woollen sounds of printers………. and phones at the office.

Soft orange light through the window on his cheekbone.

His soul eclipsed,

body half bathed in light

now halved in countenance.

With little surface his silhouette

swells into a bold fire,

snakes its way into a foreign despair.

He has lived forever.

No one writes to him.