Those who leap out of bed believe.


Having to lean and squint down the bed-leg

each day on waking means I’m unsure

of the hare brained bellwether architect

whose titanium paint lets in rainwater.

The glass balcony’s engraved spider’s web?

A ploy to hide faults in manufacture.


Today’s nervous glance sees the white set

of kicked-off socks I’d trusted to the floor.

No collapse of boards and beams quite yet.

But then the all-seeing infant messenger

comes with pointed finger. Something dead.

That nothing thing in the floorboard!


A petty knothole, but blatant, unstipulated.

Perhaps it vents into the sleeping quarter

of loose fibre and paper dust ─ unchecked

by building inspectors. One eggshell flaw

breached by a cliff-ledge chick’s ultimate peck

at the shell of reality, and the tiny dreadnaught


plummets like vomit into a vast briny basin.

I’ll huddle in my feather bag and text

a neighbour ─ a carpenter by persuasion ─

an upright man ─ to advise on the vexed

question of whether it’s ever wise to rise and walk.