Poem
Peter Boyle
SEPARATION
SEPARATION
SEPARATION
You in the high-walled fortress of sleepI on an island of wakefulness
bird-haunted, trapped by mist
You eyeing the warm milk of suspicion
I drinking the green rain of the seagull’s ocean
You on the red deck of the last ferry going under
I on the amusement pier lost in the crowd
You going forward into the mirror
I crawling backward into the teeth’s cavity
You in sunglasses
walking towards the sea on a street that backs into the sun
I sliding on ice across the abandoned freeway
You in prison waiting for redemption
I in the asylum counting billiard balls
You climbing stairways, humping buckets of soapy fisheyes
I descending the silver elevators, escorted by clouds
You on the night bus that leaves from the ferry wharf and goes
across the stone desert to the other side of the earth
I on the top floor of the brightly lit hospital,
beating the glass with my hands
The night is cold
The poplars are grey in the headlights
You have opened the paragraph of silence
I was closing the volume of inaudible sound
© 1994, Peter Boyle
From: Coming home from the world
Publisher: Five Islands Press, Wollongong
From: Coming home from the world
Publisher: Five Islands Press, Wollongong
Poems
Poems of Peter Boyle
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SEPARATION
You in the high-walled fortress of sleepI on an island of wakefulness
bird-haunted, trapped by mist
You eyeing the warm milk of suspicion
I drinking the green rain of the seagull’s ocean
You on the red deck of the last ferry going under
I on the amusement pier lost in the crowd
You going forward into the mirror
I crawling backward into the teeth’s cavity
You in sunglasses
walking towards the sea on a street that backs into the sun
I sliding on ice across the abandoned freeway
You in prison waiting for redemption
I in the asylum counting billiard balls
You climbing stairways, humping buckets of soapy fisheyes
I descending the silver elevators, escorted by clouds
You on the night bus that leaves from the ferry wharf and goes
across the stone desert to the other side of the earth
I on the top floor of the brightly lit hospital,
beating the glass with my hands
The night is cold
The poplars are grey in the headlights
You have opened the paragraph of silence
I was closing the volume of inaudible sound
From: Coming home from the world
SEPARATION
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