Lost
Last modified on 2008-09-15 15:54:47 GMT. 0 comments. Top.
Suddenly we can be erased
out of a tunnel like a sun sung
someone implants the wrong cornea
to see cities of coins
where eyes should be, each notion
indexed to a corresponding
night-bus with its moving
waiting-room filled with loose words.
A car we are lost in is
as if it is in the same place we
believe it to be. Later
on the phone but coincident
you motion the school we drove past.
A sense of a word ended,
here, and nothing marks this.
Surrounded by stuff we cannot name,
miles of air where
harassed newspapers spread their wings
and the colours run behind.
We slow the car to listen to the rotten song
and work as interpreters of capital.
I turn to the wheel and I say but
my tongue was not in I tell the car radio
to fuck off twice on the way home.
Giles Goodland
