I came across these while going through a box full of memories…

(both untitled)

Somewhere in this room of stopped clocks
and no power and empty spaces
where the furniture should be,
is a silence worth listening to.

Perfume or aftershave could linger
above the carpet stains
but the lights and pipes and water
quiver and rattle alone.

When it all comes back to the thing
the you and me and us of it
this space is all just part of it and
the silence remains the same,
interrupted only by time.


Phone calls are mostly long-distance –
this is the dust of which you speak
if I cry out to hear you,
it’ll reach there in a week.

Thunder in the distance calls –
more loquacious than you or I
when you try to shout to me
it comes out as a sigh.

The distance calls across a time –
passion seeking pain
if I go back to next week,
it’ll all still be the same.

There is no power in empty spaces,
passion meeting pain
there’s only guilt and hope and rage,
they all work out the same.