While Waiting for the Singularity

someone is drilling in the flat above this one.

we talked for at least two hours last night

but we never got anywhere even though

we always forget it's not about that.

this poem is being written with one eye

on the other window where I am watching

Claude applying for jobs for me.

I am naked under the Summer duvet in bed waiting

for the moment when I can just pull the soft cloak

of weed over my head, and jam the fiddle

in the crook of my neck and saw away.