Earliest morning, switching all the
tracks that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
      coupling the ends of streets
      to trains of light,

now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
      put out the neon shapes
      that float and swell and glare

down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
      Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
      From the window I see

an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
      detail upon detail,
      cornice upon façade

reaching so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
      (Where it has slowly grown
      in skies of water-glass

from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical ‘garden’ in a jar
      trembles and stands again,
      pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)

The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, ‘Boom!’ and a cloud of smoke.
      ‘Boom!’ and the exploding ball
      of blossom blooms again.

(And all the employees who work in plants
where such a sound says ‘Danger,’ or once said ‘Death,’
      turn in their sleep and feel
      the short hairs bristling

on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken off a threadlike clothes-line.
      Along the street below
      the water-wagon comes

throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
      light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
      of the cool watermelon.

I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
      scattered or grouped cascades,
      alarms for the expected:

queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
      you will dine well
      on his heart, on his, and his,

so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
      Scourge them with roses only,
      be light as helium,

for always to one, or several, morning comes,
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
      whose face is turned
      so that the image of

the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
      distorted and revealed,
      if he sees it at all.

Readings

Love Lies Sleeping read by Harriet Walter
Love Lies Sleeping read by Charles Dance
Love Lies Sleeping read by Charles Dance
Select reading
Love Lies Sleeping read by Harriet Walter
Love Lies Sleeping read by Charles Dance
Love Lies Sleeping read by Charles Dance
© Copyright 2025 The Josephine Hart Poetry Foundation. A charity registered in England and Wales number 1145062.