The world is vast and similar.

My father does not shake my hand any more,
he says he does not pass me on the street
he says
no, we did not meet.

I wonder then,
who have I been talking to
as if they had known me my whole life?

just who is this I am tipping hats at
as if they bathed me into this world,
and why do they not tell me
that this is inappropriate behaviour
for two so unwell acquainted?

and who is this I am pooring my misery onto?
and who is this one I invite to my wedding?
and who is this person clutching a list of my ailments?
and whose is this hand that is cupping my breast?

I am pursuing strangers.
I know.

I am stopping and starting at holes in the road,
at holes where we used to go

I have remembered too much in this city,
every corner has its story

it takes too long to walk this plot
(of ground)
so many times over

it takes too long to recognise so much
in what should be unfamiliar.

why am I pinning you down?

why am I pressing my knees in your shoulders
demanding to know why you look like my father?

why do you look like my father?

In this city one thing resembles another thing
and all things resemble my nostalgia.





June 2009.