Voices
We staggered down the via della Guerra, the wind
snatching at the bedlam of each overflowing bin,
and you told me of voices crowding your head
like sharp stones, as if the entire street had moved in
with simultaneous post-theatre analysis, girls on boys
and boys on girls, drunk sermons on the brink
of violence, and how often the confusion
made more sense than a single, real voice,
including mine – a gloss which left me speechless
as we entered the bar and your beer order
was understood despite the anarchy
of discourse drifting to the ceiling fan,
which is, I know, where most conversations drift
and spin at a height and resonance
just beyond reach, along the wiry ventricles
of the city's brain, before settling
for that rented room where my reply, finally
and dutifully performed, is already dulling
to a murmur beneath the bed's bright quilt.
© 2008
Salt Publishing Limited 
