I found the stone stairs
to the roof, the ones
with a star at the top
if you climb them at evening.
Up, this time not evening
but almost midday, the legs like roots
that will not give way,
the chest with its little alarm clock
that’s sprung too tight
so that the snap
of its works disconnects
the breath from flight.
And so down I fell
like Lucifer bathed in fire,
or Persephone on that black road
shuffling under.
It was weeks before I came round.
Martha and Tom were there
at my bedside to tell me the story.
I’d been white as marbelite. Then
I’d turned blue. They left
and I cried.
I would like to say
that I cried my heart out.
But I suspect I’d left it there
halfway up the stone stair.
For now,
Lucifer’s quiet. Persephone
raises her eyes and looks back
at the hospital gates.
It’s night. No stars.
The grass is woolly,
the flowers like glass.
And my alarm clock’s set, and wound.