Max Wright

Rest Mass

We save our spirituality for night

folding our clothes

over the same chair.


I hear taps go off in all the flats

and the noise of other bodies

divest the night of shape.


Our absent sight is no prurient colour

as our bind divides

to each our own quiet.


My ears alphabetise its static

listening for the grace note

of a resident sense of dark


and our bodies that so mattered then

reach beyond our means

for something more modest.  



Max Wright is alive in London writing poems and short stories about inner lives   

More of Max Wrights poetry can be found in Elbow Room Volume Eleven