We are laid bare, waiting for renewal;
I collect the receiver, finding the line
Hissing and discontinued.
I take the intonation as circumstance
For something redeemable;
Your hand, a look, an utterance.
Exhausting the minute, I gather myself, having left
The pavement to its disclosed symmetry,
A reliance as exact, having no one guess
The lacking which splits us irrevocably,
We group as sleepwalkers, our footsteps slip,
Our eyes study from screen to screen.
A television stammers on, its fixed stare
Concentrated like a beam,
The signifiers wearily repair
Our disparate links at a common seam,
We share its bonds without agreement,
Under the same light we are never clean.
The film reel runs its cyclical fulfilment,
Reanimated, we are locked into its frames;
Its fictions burn out to empty filaments.
Each snapshot the whole contains
Is an attempt at certainty, we read ourselves
Out of the details, or have them re-made.
Already ended, we divide up the remains;
Your skin or mine, itemising touch by touch,
Between us, there are not walls but window panes.
We watch ourselves performing each event
Until our repetitions separate, we are left alone
With any recollection we invent.