She awoke from her candlestick dreams, the girl broken mirror eyes,
and said, ‘Did I miss much life?’
I looked at her, her face like a melting doll’s, and replied,
‘It is the rest of us who are asleep.’
---
The woman in the dream armchair said:
‘You must be one of those people
who doesn’t realise
that music’s playing
all the time’
---
I cut myself with the knife
again and again but the
blade wasn’t sharp enough.
And outside one bird flew off,
spooked by something,
and all the rest scattered.
---
She showed me poems she had written,
as if I was into that sort of thing.
Pages on the kitchen table in the morning
sunlight. We learn to live as we
learn to die.
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