[Corneac]

He awoke – dreams settling into night,
musty sheet and the keenness of darkness
that only sleep brings, peeling of his eyelids
like the oil paint of an abandoned barn,

a hand, uncontrolled, like instinct,
snakes out,
slithers past the folds of doona cover
and expected limbs like morning
creeping over mountains,

nothing – cold sheets,
and unslept side of the bed
that stings him awake,

gone,
gone like the moon before daybreak
leaving only the greyness of limbo
before sunlight warms the window panes,

a flurry of yesterdays clothes,
dressed in half-light,
the cold stinging him faster and faster awake,
he stops – mid breath, mid-pant leg,

she echoes,
like the greyness, fingertips fumbling
at the window, frozen and numb,
but eager to get in,

he’ll chase her, sprout wings,
angelic ones, black ones,
an eagle – he’ll weave like ancient lineage
through mountaintops and valleys – carcasses of erosion,

a bird, epitomising sadness
with mournful eyes that beg her presence
with every stare,

he’ll blanket St. Peters,
he’ll be the stars, the well-lit fountains,
the architecture that screams – go home, go home,
you don’t belong here,

he’ll scuttle through Parisian alleys
the cobblestones callusing toes,
he’ll be the spiders, spun, in every loft rafter
every six-eyes that stare out, suspiciously,
from abandoned café hidey holes,
that have been ignored, far too long,
in the name of semblance,

he’ll walk, like a lost tourist,
between the sky-scrapers
and those who have somewhere to go,

looking, always looking,
coldness will blanch his cheek into stubble
and heat with melt his hansd to sweat,

he’ll storm the winter palace in the name of revolution,
and still not be shot down-
Cossacks, like ordinary people will ignore him
perhaps lending a wondering thought to the wanderer
day old clothes, collecting moth balls,
like stink,

he’ll stink by then – like search,
like an orgasm that never comes, just leaves
with the stench of sweat on your pores,
like a child, abandoned by florescent light
and strangers that all resemble familiarity,
like unknown street signs and foreign language
that leave you whirling, gusted by your own sense
of ineptitude and hopelessness,

mid pant leg- he trips them off,
and stops,
stops moving, stops searching,
stops hoping,

and looks – sees the bookshelf,
half empty, his own cheap paperbacks
and Britannica’s falling over,
unsure of what to do with the newly acquired space,

he sees the underwear draw ajar,
and her car keys gone,

he stops, and as if peeling off the remnants
of oil stain from barn door, he sleeps,
the greyness of limbo
still pressed against the panes,

[RENA HANDS]

Did you intend ‘an,’ here…nothing-cold sheets, (an) and unslept side of the bed that stings him awake,

What about…gone, (vanished) like the moon before daybreak

Is this a possessive…a flurry of (yesterday’s) yesterdays clothes

Do you speak of one spider or just in general a lot of spiders…

he’ll be the (spider’s spun OR spiders’ spun) spiders, spun, in every loft rather

What about…(as) and those who have somewhere to go,

What about…and (will) still not be shot down-

Is this a possessive…perhaps lending a wondering thought to the
wanderer(‘s) day old clothes,

Is it not…he sees the underwear (drawn) draw ajar,

Wow! That’s many commas. There were (for me) many repeating thoughts/imagery, but I think it reinforces your point. Therefore, I can only applaud the imagery and poignant emotions illustrated (only because I’m no expert).

Please accept my rating of 4/5!