Here we are, silent for a moment
between the words. I’m in
the other room on the telephone,
hearing the telephone ringing
from the room you have landed in,
falling through the ceiling
from whatever shaped cloud
has carried you. Pick up the receiver.
Careful how you answer so the line
doesn’t break … are you there?
Here I am in my ice palace
under the white sheet where only
the language of your evening eyes
will keep the cold prologues
from freezing over. I wanted
to say more about the line
before giving you directions
to the desk where I’m sitting
with my breath visible in front
of my face, how syntax is the weather
and can alter the weather
which in a second will change.
Your room is made up from the light
inside a thunderclap. Now
go through the double doors
at the end of the hall, and on and on
and through the door beyond that.
I’ll turn around to see the shadow
of your form on the paper-thin wall.
I’m here with you only to pull
your full figure of speech towards me.
Rachael Boast