Every now and then
I as I was and I as I will be
get hungry
and arrive before dawn.
The former is an armoured soldier
with a gaping wound in his chest,
his face looks paler
than a fledgling day
falling out of the moon's nest.
The latter wears
a powdered wig and a crimson suit,
on his head shakes a feathered hat
and a rapier jingles at his hip.
I feed my past bitter buckwheat
boiled in salted water
to sate his savage hunger
and keep him dead.
I feed my future sprouted
barley bursting with crisp life
to make him tall and heavy
and more impatient.
Then I open my door
and let them both out:
I offer one the vinegar of night
and the other steaming milk of dawn.
These drinks do not mix
and I turn around feeling quite sick
as the blue tongue of day licks
my head like a lolly on a twin stick.
