I wait for him to come to bed

drifting to the sounds 

of the overhead flight path into warm, 

gluey dreams of boy bands on airplanes,

wars and plane crashes

while he- haloed in screenlight

tracks the last of the curlew

listening in on their display songs 

through noise-cancelling headphones

feeling through data sets hidden 

in the charred heather 

of gentlemen’s private playlands

later, he lies down with me 

between damp walls— a sign of life 

growing in blocked gutters above