Someone is walking at
the back of my head.
The long black legs, Anna your hands’
sallow grace as you speak or smoke, the fluttering
anorexic trails between us; glances —
polished wide-angle shots along
a wall. We look at
each other sideways, the abstract frames.
Music: it’s both director and
audience — knits our rhetoric.
You talk about lovers, of the friend who
one night, walked off The Gap.
The labyrinth of your life is laid out
in your face your
eyes two blue spiders. I
could take their thread and arrive
back at the place where Rimbaud
left off. But it’s late, years late. Time to
stub the last word against the wall where
it hangs like a blue orchid,
papery to the touch.