You said -As if an identity could be warm and real.
Jonesy this, and Jonesy that,
The expectation fell over me,
A precipitation of bricks and soil.
Shadows, they looked like shadows of bats
Against the blind, afternoon pavement.
When I awoke and realised I was still alive,
A trillion beings respired,
And my respite was wired in.
I cut my pale limbs climbing over,
And when I reached sleep,
I found no lamb, no lion, not even water.
What I remember is a stubborn clock,
A past without oxygen or muscle.