I’m beside a pool unheated, being filmed.
I’m reading aloud from a book.
Speaking softly so as to make my audience
listen more carefully.
Speaking nonsense beautifully.
My tongue an actor’s, my bearing
the shape of my body, old and shrunken.
I turn to the camera, myself, and take out an eye.
The seeing part of me looks into the lens and winks acknowledgment.
I’m in a cinema, I’m at home watching television
I’m walking past a hoarding.
On advertisements I see myself half-seeing.
Later I search deeply in my coat pocket and pull out the lost eye.
I shake with fury and the eye is lost.
I’m in bed with a woman
she’s maybe thirteen years old.
As every year goes by she’s younger and I’m older.
Amongst the sheets I’m losing two years
every time I turn to her for comfort.
She’s pepper, brown powder.
Soon before the few months old
when babies learn to smile.
She has no teeth.
I have no teeth.
I’m in prison.
I’m in prison and nobody comes.