Fog Slow To Clear

I watched you bleed on the page
and saw it was the blood of kin.
Not the same wounds, no
my dreams were not this dark
nor my fists as muddy
nor my windows withal grime.
I avert my eyes.
Some of them fly by
at half the speed of sound
and I, bewildered in their wake
shake my head and turn the page.
Yet some I recognise
red deserts, crystal thoughts
resonating in sympathetic vibration.
I know that fly
I guess who 4U is for
I once were like
I should have thought of breath, if I were thinking
I saw a mirage of Deep Down Place
I thought of the colours of dreams
and when your twinned soul was cut
I felt a phantom amputation.
Last, last of all,
I watched a poem drown
and did not understand
save for this:
it shone with love.

-- Kathryn A

(13 Oct 99, on reading Fog Slow To Clear, by James Morrison