LOOT


1

A living telephone. This is how he floats
out of reach. Some you can hold

on the coldest night. A video call
from a blob-like face. As before

you lie on your bed, the drama
pre-baked, the dice loaded.

Be quiet, say nothing
down the seams of your trousers.


2

Suspend the story here. The dying
hum a melody. But don't open the door.

Let them rest on the embankment
where the snow is deep, the wind strong.

Who do you love best? Pick a card.
You come and go in search of something

real. You are less likely to see it
when it stirs than most.


3

In the half light, a shadow already
asking for forgiveness. The path back

is barely findable. I must have been close
once. I see her on the corner, her dress

raised, slowly at first. I'm so far away
the clouds over the hilltop town

are not moving. She stops me
on the street to say goodbye.


4

An icy night. Paralysed, I make a note:
mouth in need of repair. She appears

sincere. She'd heard and seen me
from behind. Whose voice

was it on the phone? Both of us
want it. So I'll have to come back for it,

I much older, falling
asleep on a small train.


5

Ahead the hill is pulled out
of the night. In the gap

of the unclosed door, we parted. She
went back to the hotel and I walked off

smoking the last cigarette
she'd given me.  This is the only way

of travelling, you say.
I haven't asked you yet.


6

When I glance back, I am still
there advancing. That shape

we call human. If only it would go home.
With each step she lights a candle.

A memory burns. He rings his finger
on the bell, turns once more, waves

and walks away. We watch until he goes
pop in the snowy distance.


© Ian Seed 2012