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at three in the morning go into the kitchen

pour milk into a glass, take out a red apple
or green and sit down at the table

eat the apple, drink the milk

and the context of existence
that the poets seek
is found

3 a.m. Feeling like death
and wanting to end it all
I reach for the paracetamol.
Will there be enough?

One by one I count them out. 72?
Need more to be on the safe side.
Rummaging around I add another 30.
That should do it.

Take the first two with a glass of water.
Feel better. Go back to bed. Fall asleep.

You told me I seemed haunted.
It was three a.m. and you could still smell
the storm clouds under my skin.
You can’t quell depression by making
love.
But we tried.
But we tried,
oh, we did.

At 3 a.m.

the room contains no sound
except the ticking of the clock
which has begun to panic
like an insect, trapped
in an enormous box.

Books lie open on the carpet.

Somewhere else
you’re sleeping
and beside you there’s a woman
who is crying quietly
so you won’t wake.

Three a.m., in bed,
and though the lamp’s neck
is twisted back

the light’s still harsh,
stripping my fictions
of red lips and composure

right back to character
as first conceived:
a few adjectives

before they’re fleshed out,
sketching me
in a single moment —

happy… incautious… amazed…
words that will never
see the light of day.