the view from nowhere

Each time there is something in my silence that you note, that breaks you. It adds another feature to my face, as I change inwardly, like a statue's eyes, gazing outwards and backwards at the same time, the heart balanced precariously.

The shape of the unmade bed, human warmth draining from its creases and folds.

What words we humans carry with us, the vast square spaces, as calm as a dusty, late afternoon. We could be anywhere...this universal music of the shopping mall, the same fake gestures, the same migrant workers only really half here.

We could have been anyone, me and you.

The first light of day touches his sleeping head,
Glides on his forehead,
Reassures itself he's the same man as yesterday.
All the colours creep through the window,
As soundless as ever.
The white from Timor via Palestine
Leans across the bed and spreads itself out.
The grey is so sorry to have left China
It lies on the mirror,
Gives it depth simply by approaching it.
Yellow dabs itself on the wardrobe,
While black repaints the human condition
The fate of the man lying in bed.