Rebecca Hawkes

Newton's Dream

It's late, and your room
Is a butter-licked cavern of candlelight,
A soft gold wound on the night.
You do not sleep,
But burrow deep into the small hours
Until you're treading, terrified,
On the bladed edge of an idea.
You nudge your skull
Into the chill blue kiss of the window,
Make a final calculation.

(Outside, the sky is an ancient
Brown and purple forest, suffused with moisture.
Stars hatch like bird's eggs in its dark arms
And you dream of falling upwards,
Drifting neck deep in solar systems
Like an angel breathed into heaven,
Testing your fingertips on emptiness.

What you'd love best would be feeling
Like the only man in the universe -
Treading the wide black gaps between the stars
And making your laws
In a place where no one could steal your ideas.
In space, you could watch the bruised pearl of the moon
Tug salt water and suck on oceans with her cold lips.
You lift your arms as if to try to -)