Wild World

“Hot ashes for trees”
—Pink Floyd, ‘Wish You Were Here’

Girl—it is coming: my mind: near silence now.
What it contained will visit you in the night
like I never told you so, did I: I tried showing you. But we always knew. We always know.
We feel it in our cold, separate beds
long before we part and start blaming each other: girl—
and I am saying girl. I am owning it. Are you owning it?
Those shadows that are entering? Because they play
against our cages regardless—cold comfort
for no change: you only swing between “cool”
and pain—oh dear—
O my dear. How does this end? It is a drip-fed story
again—showing
not telling: that is all gods can do (OK I did tell you! You saw the marks
on my hands! (But father: I forgive her!)) because girl girl girl
girl girl—I don’t know how else to say it, so I might as well
say it rather sillily: can you guess what face you’ll be seeing
smiling when it comes through? Can you guess who was right in the shadows?