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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