Strange, that there are sequences
              we live as cinema, if I looked
over my shoulder
I might recognise the front wall
of my bedroom
               opened out towards the camera,

my furniture as hollow
as a stage prop. I am
vicarious to myself: strange,

                                         that sometimes
we recognise significance
instead of burning it back in, much later
and imperfectly.
               Some nights I wake up
gasping at the air, I dream
I'm trying, through my sleep
                                      to speak,

              to call your name
from the wet depths of slumber
but I can't will my mouth
to move: if we are unknown

even to our selves
how can we try to hold each other
still? I sit against
            the bedhead, my knees

press against my breasts. Outside
are stars, a car door slamming,
the last train shunting back into the depot.

Fiona Wright

Recording