Room (July)

I wake from a dream of factories and freeways, the room a quiet reassuring every sense, where torso turns between sheets. I remember being asleep, unlike adamant clock and outlined lamp. Where curtain inches apart garden’s moonlight is silent forms: the seed that is now it’s tree, fence not there by accident, cold Warringal hillside. I hear the cat breathing through her nose, the clunk of what could be a possum on a neighbour’s roof. Tipped-sideways thoughts of loss combine for attention with familiar desires. I read a novel of myself without turning on the light, here July, gone tomorrow.