tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33473826.post-82930254031298666012008-01-22T13:02:00.000+01:002008-01-22T13:13:42.158+01:002008-01-22T13:13:42.158+01:00You in the high-walled fortress of sleep<br />I on an island of wakefulness<br />bird-haunted, trapped by mist<br /><br />You eyeing the warm milk of suspicion<br />I drinking the green rain of the seagull’s ocean<br /><br />You on the red deck of the last ferry going under<br />I on the amusement pier lost in the crowd<br /><br />You going forward into the mirror<br />I crawling backward into the teeth’s cavity<br /><br />You in sunglasses<br />walking towards the sea on a street that backs into the sun<br />I sliding on ice across the abandoned freeway<br /><br />You in prison waiting for redemption<br />I in the asylum counting billiard balls<br /><br />You climbing stairways, humping buckets of soapy fisheyes<br />I descending the silver elevators, escorted by clouds<br /><br />You on the night bus that leaves from the ferry wharf and goes<br />across the stone desert to the other side of the earth<br />I on the top floor of the brightly lit hospital,<br />beating the glass with my hands<br /><br />The night is cold<br />The poplars are grey in the headlights<br /><br />You have opened the paragraph of silence<br />I was closing the volume of inaudible sound<br /><br />Peter Boyle <em>in Coming home from the world</em>Isabel Moreirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00620189560295607699noreply@blogger.com