The Insomniac Lodger

A nice day, people say.
A beautiful day, they say, an hourglass in every word.
Raise your face to the sky and fists of sunlight crush bone,
shards now freed, float, skim, scrape inside your head and elbow against your eyes.
The lodger claws its way hot, hot down the throat.
Circling, circling it makes a bed in the stomach, clamping in sharp teeth before falling asleep.
Keep still, breathe carefully, try not to wake it.
It never sleeps for long.