Truths
Truths
Two truths and a lie. The old game -
sometimes the me in the poem is not me.
Sometimes it is. The I who is writing the poem is actually
elsewhere. Not here. Not on the busy grey street
of this dream of skyscrapers and thunderstorms,
suits and briefcases crowding at the trains. We dream this,
and we dream that. Also sunsets,
islands, mountains, and the sea. Everybody here
is from somewhere else, dreaming that. Alice slipping
through the looking-glass. Two lies and a truth -
I, from here, am elsewhere. It's springtime. The geckos
are out in full bloom. The kerkle of a laughing-thrush,
the heliconia singing. I couldn't even tell you the names
of all these plants. The brickwork steps of the breakwater
beckon down to the sea. Is this everything
I've ever wanted? And you? Three truths. Three lies.
By now I am far away.
Two truths and a lie. The old game -
sometimes the me in the poem is not me.
Sometimes it is. The I who is writing the poem is actually
elsewhere. Not here. Not on the busy grey street
of this dream of skyscrapers and thunderstorms,
suits and briefcases crowding at the trains. We dream this,
and we dream that. Also sunsets,
islands, mountains, and the sea. Everybody here
is from somewhere else, dreaming that. Alice slipping
through the looking-glass. Two lies and a truth -
I, from here, am elsewhere. It's springtime. The geckos
are out in full bloom. The kerkle of a laughing-thrush,
the heliconia singing. I couldn't even tell you the names
of all these plants. The brickwork steps of the breakwater
beckon down to the sea. Is this everything
I've ever wanted? And you? Three truths. Three lies.
By now I am far away.