I start back and blink into the gloom
at the large eye which fills
behind filaments of blond light
the left hand side of the screen.
Down the other half, crossing the room,
a city street with night and rain.
A door is silently pushed shut.
Has the hit-man been sent
on his mission? I feel the damp seep
into the bone, the creeping chill.
If thjs goes on things might grow
about this arid place. But what
has sunk into the well of sleep?
They’d come with knives and guns
close to its brim, and I ponder
three possibilities: she has
betrayed him and the director points
to her loneliness; she’s got them off
on a false trail and now’s fearful
of their return; and third,
because the eye looms sinister,
she may’ve doublecrossed them both,
pursuing some darker game.
I live by conjecture merely
for my truth is in another’s plan.
Besides, the episode ends here,
I think, with the door being shut.
But don’t directors build on such
preposterous detail? Uneasily,
I turn round: it is indeed shut.
I would have loved her regardless.
I would have roamed this night
holding her hand. In times
as treacherous as these goodwill
walks abroad in the guise of evil,
God’s angels spy on cockroach wings.
Such uniformity but breeds deception.
Inside my walls I would have feared
but on the rising water floats
the Adriatic weed and all my leaves
are burnished scales of fish
hung dead under the murky canopy.
This crawling search over the floor
of a diluvian cave is pointless:
no crack is big enough, no lair
of squinting octopus. What game
is this, little brothers? That’s mother
scolding in the sonorous corridors
of breezy summers. Please grab my hair,
lift off the lead. Her voice mocks
and burns across the whitewash sun.