Monday, 11 April 2005


That is of course the word we hide, a whispered encounter, that blissful retraction again. Scattered black and whites, what price a photograph, what price a secret behind a photograph? Once I know you, I will know you. Although we have talked of the keeping, we only circle each other in poems, reading from the same green-covered book and I want to look back but that was then, and besides, you have read those words before.

I take influences while you take breath, lying in the morning afternoon evening night, irrelevating, a row of terraces pitching out to the east and to the sea, the feint shivers of a childhood, to rockpools and leavings and to love again but of a different kind.

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