A Letter

Every time someone uses the word Enlightenment

a seagull bursts into flames

You are the love of my life

& that was so long ago who cares

Your blue-grey eyes & dancer’s limbs

& the warmth of your hair on the cold pillows

It was such a stupid building

with its cage lift & its rooms full of drunks & taxidermists (& drunken taxidermists)

The stars shone

& then they were silent

I have this thing about the night

it doesn’t exist & it’s all that exists

The machine of history

the death of language leaves us more eloquent than before

Even when capitalism has been overcome

I’ll miss you; your blue-grey eyes & dancer’s limbs & the warmth of your hair on the cold pillows

& the interesting things you said about Turner

& the day I found you as a C19 photograph in a shop in Reykjavík

Which is a lie

because I’ve never been to Reykjavík

Anyway, no one writes old-fashioned letters these days

so I thought I would

I’ve not much news: I got bored decapitating myself

I still wear glasses & listen to music

Once we just decided to walk all night

following the sinuosity of the streets

I wish we’d never come back

but kept going.