Friend

I see you on a Greek mattress
Reading Sartre, the scent

Of the near sea limp
Given to a sense of perfection

That could never be perfect,
The sun emptied of such circumstance.

And on a whitewashed wall
I see you raise another hexagram

For the same old question:
How can we ever be free?

And I see you clearing your dreams
With the hairpin of someone's innocent night,

The plastic evil eye fastened to your coat.
And you throw words down like stones,

Flat-bellied like schist slit
And irredeemable.

And you read how all
Of the words of the world

Have changed around the the question
You set: can anything matter again?

I never answered any of your letters.
Do you remember me

Do you remember me still
As you sift through histories

That do nothing but shine
With a sudden silence

That lingers on and on
Until the colour of day

Bleeds into stasis and waits?
Dark star without skies

Speaking our names
Awkwardly.

John Cornwall

If you've any comments on this poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.