Nº 8 of 12


Off The Map

Over the course of the day I forget who you are
like the cider that is cooling in my fridge.
Twice now I have taken it out
placed it on the table with a glass
and twice, the morning after you have left
returned it unopened to its cold standing.

This is a conscious forgetting.
I am not neglectful, just careful.
Had history distilled itself differently
I would be drunk on you already.
I fall back into bed and inhale
your perfume on my pillow

ether on a handkerchief.
Do you see how easy it is
for me to fix myself? In a dream
I chase you down a Caspian coastline
find my name in your country
and lose you in mine.

Does it worry you that I have studied
your subtle geography?
Become familiar with its ridges and boarders?
It’s far too late now of course.
My name is in your country
and you are in yours.

You must know I believe in love
like I believe in ghosts;
an atheist angel who is afraid of both
haunted by the shadow floating
hoping the sun will always shine
but my name is in your country

and you are in mine.
This written in the last letters of an old alphabet
spoken in the first few words
of a new language. I will never learn.
My fingers are clumsy on these keys
I press delete, shift and return.

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