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* Nocturne* Each night all a cabinet’s drawers hurtle open, its filing flung as if wind-blown. A twisted aerial crooks to a sinking signal. I bury my heads in a sprouting loam. db -- David Joseph Bircumshaw Website and A Chide's Alphabet http://www.staplednapkin.org.uk The Animal Subsides http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/david.bircumshaw twitter: http://twitter.com/bucketshave blog: http://groggydays.blogspot.com/ Leicester Poetry Society: http://www.poetryleicester.com