Antony Nichols
'Graveyard Shift'
Half-blinded by a winter of striplit
hall-tiles, that glare of spotlights
activated by timer at midnight, I squint
over news-print like the art college gargoyle.
Fake whorls on my kidney-shaped unit
Unstick and swim upwards. The latest
entrance is a revolver, which gusts all night.
Students keep on kicking the self-shutters.
Do you watch over me, Claire? Are the homeless
your friends? Ed struts bird-like, buys time
pointing at vents, flaps his tattooed arms
then cries. Weak pigeons that clamber
in, hunched old pilots, are they sent?
I peer, sphinx-like, over an Austen or BrontÎ.
To me, timeís a wing, touches gently along
memories I have. Or itís a stroke of water,
brushes oil fainter. Every night, I read
some of the notebooks you filled, picture
your face, that final week so bony.
The vagrants Iím meant to keep out
are angels and stare in. Footsteps become
moonlighting students, who leave folios.
I flick through binders. Portraits reappear
later framed, in college shows, and named.
Sometimes, I wonder how you appear now.
Remember the art magazines on your desk?
I bring them with me. From one, bronze leaves
floated as I ruffled the soft pages,
spread on my counter, brittle veined,
each thinner than a leaf. Where, in our
walled old garden, did you find them?