by John Welch
[ poetry - november 07 ]
And winter coming on like this,
Passing the house again and looking
Up at the lit silence
Of what was once your flat -
It was as if we'd held that room together
And we were falling
Further and further back towards
The sheet of glass that lifted
Its gleaming blackness sheer against
A night of restless unseen trees.
Why is it called 'making' love -
As if in the mirror it
Looked and saw difference, out of the
All but unreachable depths
Elbowing reflections aside?
Being seen in there was word becoming flesh
And a face growing dark with the recognising
Of what it was between us -
Surely we were on our way to somewhere,
If we only knew
But I was flying with the wish
To empty 'me' into 'you'
And later all it wanted was
To be indoors and quiet,
Inhabiting a morning.
The words have put me in a shallow grave,
Whose sudden space is me and I together
Holding you holding me and falling
Further and further back, at
Memory's far edge
Towards the blackness of that silent
Window one more time.
Returning to the street, its
That pass me passing them and I am thinking
What can be done with all this me?