Jake Bayliss

Wait for lights at the window;

It’s coffee morning at mine.

Once all meander home

The remnants trace lines

In the leafy script-pages,

Digging, restless for replies.

Soon, a roaming carcass

Will be lit with news

Or laughter as a candle wilts

In some gloomy box room.

We live through sirens,

The hope that they pass,

Burst locks and spectral letters.