Twenty Ways Of Looking At 1.02 Am Poem by Andrew Lee

The purple and brownish birds sing to the nightingales at 1.02 am

I have been timing it. No mistakes made, except the batteries

running someone's post-operation, atropied heart have run out

and the heavenly lights pour out from somewhere, from everywhere.

Please help, Dr Cyril Wong, because Samuel Beckett once said,

Death is such a long, tiresome business

and the Grim Reaper ain't supposed to appear tonight at 1.02 am.

There are many more ways of looking at 1.02 am

The post-operation patient wants to live long,

to time and record down the slow workings of 1.02 am

and to time and record down the hypnotic rhythms of the vibration

of the voice-box of those nightingales

and to hear and record down the giggles of his young children.

But the cosmic Watch has stopped, for a moment, at 1.02 am

as he read and re-read these lines.

Glad to have struggled and glimpsed some small victorious

moments based on His Grace.

There are only moments. No real 1.02 AMs.