and i remember that trick candle
sparkling on our bath, the flash and
speech of it, burning through my thoughts.
how it made me think of my first love,
or my second, in that city of light
that changes in my mouth.
if i had known you would be
such a fan of that light,
i would have save some for you,
a little more of that slow twilight
reflecting on the pavement,
the first night you walked me home
in the rain, on the roof of factories,
on the spring grass in fitzroy.
obviously, there are none left
other than - in my throat -
in our last cigarette, decaying
in the cold night of this city
so fearful to the open seas,
like the ashes scattering.
i tried to speak openly to you
in the photographs, postcard,
i tried to say how penniless i am
of light.