I live now in a haunted place-without remembered.ghosts—no bitter weeds, no webs of light, no single hair.curled sweetly on the mirror's glass, but one dark room.trunk and an evening smelling of wet leaves and complex,.treacherous sewers..I think I've lost the beauty that filled my throat with its.difficult sadness, its harrowing indifference. Gone bright.doors, gone shafts of never-changing, happy light, gone.freshly-minted dawns, gone February, gone July, gone.cotton carders with their flaming eyes, gone that whole.rich yearning life..I live now among fight-faced houses coloured like.matchsticks, 21-inch t.v. screens in badly-lit rooms, people.endlessly polishing their bikes, road maps full of rightangled.streets and little squares of jaded green, the.engineering student's alarm clock at five, after which I lie.awake wondering who meagerly measures.out days like these..But none of this kills the habit of awareness I have that.melts the world into a nectar for the senses more readily.than love devours a face, or grief breathes in and out the.air of absence. I am without a place. I want three seasons.keeping time in the sky and valleys which the evening fills.with its dark blue waters..I always wanted to be alone. But now.I'll never be the good witch.I was at home: burrowing into diaries.full of love secrets and spite,.always raging but always quiet, bred.in novels, raised on memories.and silence. This is not silence..Even when the world is still,.even when just dogs and street-lights live,.this is not the silence of the night..where books ignore their neighbours in the aluminium
I live now in a haunted place-without remembered.ghosts—no bitter weeds, no webs of light, no single hair.curled sweetly on the mirror's glass, but one dark room.trunk and an evening smelling of wet leaves and complex,.treacherous sewers..I think I've lost the beauty that filled my throat with its.difficult sadness, its harrowing indifference. Gone bright.doors, gone shafts of never-changing, happy light, gone.freshly-minted dawns, gone February, gone July, gone.cotton carders with their flaming eyes, gone that whole.rich yearning life..I live now among fight-faced houses coloured like.matchsticks, 21-inch t.v. screens in badly-lit rooms, people.endlessly polishing their bikes, road maps full of rightangled.streets and little squares of jaded green, the.engineering student's alarm clock at five, after which I lie.awake wondering who meagerly measures.out days like these..But none of this kills the habit of awareness I have that.melts the world into a nectar for the senses more readily.than love devours a face, or grief breathes in and out the.air of absence. I am without a place. I want three seasons.keeping time in the sky and valleys which the evening fills.with its dark blue waters..I always wanted to be alone. But now.I'll never be the good witch.I was at home: burrowing into diaries.full of love secrets and spite,.always raging but always quiet, bred.in novels, raised on memories.and silence. This is not silence..Even when the world is still,.even when just dogs and street-lights live,.this is not the silence of the night..where books ignore their neighbours in the aluminium
