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 http://organloft.tumblr.com/
More of Max Wrights poetry can be found in Elbow Room Volume Eleven