Sleepers and Glitches

Words by Sarah Hesketh

Glitches

Otherwise flow of morning. The scraps of dreams still
stranded in our eyes, commuters thrust inwards,
pretend, there are other worlds than this. On
tracks that take us elsewhere, from ourselves,
coffee-smoke speaks modest spells into the air;
we plug our ears with tinny incantations, songs
that only we can hear. Here's where the glitches live.
And though you tell yourself it's just the tricks of
the light as it lilts its way over concrete and glass
each day you silently wish for them: faces forcing
their way out of the stone, quick bodies etched in gold
and jigging, winking their way through the daybreak mass.
Grass gives way to mineral. Our gazes harden as
the city appears. We saw but we did not see:
the residents of the edgelands made flesh.