Werner Herzog tells me about penguins in the arctic,
one rushing to the mountain, away from the
others, little being
driven by its own gales. Outside you are
in your favourite place, under the tree,
or pretending to be. The sun stretches its
over your taut legs, your dandelion head.
I like to imagine you are on the other side
of the window
—angry with me for rushing to work, for
hiding in the toilet,
writing things you choose not to think. But
it is this:
I need to see you weedy and sour, the window
I need to see you sunspots and smile lines,
rings of ice in your blue eyes. I need to
see us, alone
—both of us. It is how we learn to be
not facing each other at all.
what is lost.