In the still of the crumbling night I creep
About pitch streets, about a flower's head,
Oh sigh to me nothing so I can sleep.

One more word and I'll crumple in a heap,
Comfort me with nothing more to be said,

In the still of the crumbling night I creep.

Disappearing with the melting snow's leap,
My limbs are stewed fish bones tied up with thread,
Oh sigh to me nothing so I can sleep.

Standing in the airing cupboard I weep,
Longing for a sigh I scratch until red,
In the still of the crumbling night I creep.

And what my hauntings sew so shall I reap,
All the houses in a row drawn with lead,
Oh sigh to me nothing so I can sleep.

Coated in the amber of a lamp's peep,
Chill street portraits, plain as death, I behead
In the still of the crumbling night I creep,
Oh sigh to me nothing so I can sleep. 

Grant Tarbard is the former editor of The Screech Owl and co-founder of Resurgant Press. He has worked as a journalist, a contributor to magazines, a reviewer, an interviewer and a proof reader.