Sport 10: Autumn 1993
The moment I heard your car engine pull into the night I turned and flicked
a glass to the floor where it broke into three parts. It was a favourite, emerald
green and luminous, made from that thick old-fashioned glass.
I did not dare contemplate you driving off in your tiny unlit room, girl's
body dressed as a boy's, dust-coloured hair moving into the distance,
cigarette hanging from your woman's lips. Running from the face of what
might never be restored I fled into sleep and you stayed all night, floating
where nothing could obliterate you, not sleep nor dreams, as if you were the
genie in a lamp that slipped from my grasp, me inviting its fall, you
encouraging my hand all the while, so that you flew out and lined my ceiling.
Now the vessel's contents pass, are passing out and I am happier breathing than seeing, desiring no more lamps to rub, no more of your face refracted through beautiful bent glass, even the word-vessel forever weighing anchor no more, the chimera of you rubbing your wide soul on my ceiling: enough.