the town is crouching   a field of windmills waits, their stupid heads turning   stirring the night's bath      bundles of vapour hand over the factories   whose lights blink and loll like sleepy eyelids   the moth in the lighthouse breathes with its prehistoric parts   i feel the night snicker      it was here   tangled among the litter and old valentines   i found my coma leaking   a branch punched a hole   in the quiet that was keeping me    and suddenly all the sleep fell out      rolling over the hills in a dark warm wave   voices of the orphan choirs threaten to overwhelm   speeding through the skeletons of trees   pulling their bodies bent      the wind's terrible symphony    tore out my longing by the toes    my ears were emptied and renamed   the balm slid off like a bubble of oil and   died pitifully under the choirmaster's heel   i was gutted and clinging on like a dish rag      but so on fire with believing   that when the storm introduced itself   i put my finger in its mouth