This poem is taken from Stand 222, 17(2) May - June 2019.

David Gale Poem
Wired

This is no twenty-four-hour day.
And no rest for the weak,
nor the patient bystander
with you traversing the landing,
then traversing the landing
like the takes for a film.
A whole film.
Maybe this will be the one,
the one that will reset the clock
back to day and night,
the tick-tock between awake and asleep.
‘Honey, I’m wired,’
but my love won’t touch it,
won’t touch it, doesn’t bring
you down like a bedtime story.
No coaxing could ever still
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