13 December: St Lucia’s Day.
We lead a woman into the church, she bears
her eyes on a small platter.
But the age of miracles has passed.
Inside stands a meteorologist
in his rubber-cell television studio
promising good weather for the next couple of weeks.
We do not interfere.
it feels vaguely embarrassing
with all these stock exchange figures and computer graphics.
Each poem lights up a piece of the world with its torch.
It is a way of making it precise.
Dear,
We are two synchronous watches
moving with our separate lives.
We take turns to carry each other
like tired children. Finally we fall back on words,
continue writing our individual flesh-letters
to the wind.
My fingertips made sure
you continue to make sense.
Love,
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