Howard Firkin
(putting on my specs)
It’s there again. The world. It’s back. The leaves
are individual and not a smear,
reflections on the window re-appear,
the furniture resolves, the brain perceives.
And you’ve gone nowhere, centred in the real
and always centre of imagination,
the always only thought, forever there.
The world returns and frames you: face and hair.
The world is curling ribbon—presentation.
The only permanent is what I feel.
The world is back projection; you’re the star.
It’s always you who’s filling centre screen.
My poor sight helps me see you as you are:
the real, the woman otherwise unseen.
are individual and not a smear,
reflections on the window re-appear,
the furniture resolves, the brain perceives.
And you’ve gone nowhere, centred in the real
and always centre of imagination,
the always only thought, forever there.
The world returns and frames you: face and hair.
The world is curling ribbon—presentation.
The only permanent is what I feel.
The world is back projection; you’re the star.
It’s always you who’s filling centre screen.
My poor sight helps me see you as you are:
the real, the woman otherwise unseen.
