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At 6.30 a.m., I go up on the roof to watch the moon heal, bandaged in cloud, observing that wound 
of night become a scar, 
then disappear; as she moves in a flimsy gauze - all flesh is sky - the place of healing shows and hides, leaving me higher than the sculpture of crane, its horizontal line; across the Bay Bridge 
the 'Hail Mary's' of passing 
ears thread the hem of morning: aircraft blink, for here 
day is dissolving in a watercolourist's dream of unaccountable lights and accidents, 
a woman is raising her head.

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Courtesy of Poetry Ireland Review Issue 27 - can anyone tell us who wrote this? Email booksatone@gmail.com please...