while flicking tongues of flame
lick the sooty fire-bricks.
The dappled women sit closer to
the turf fire
bathing in its golden arrowy tabernacle
rays.
He checks to see they shine in the
palm of his hands.
He confesses to them in a proud penitential voice
that he is in the filmic poem
visually.
He says the spoken words sound
wayward in his larynx,
that his mind finds its feet only on
the floating page.
They seem to understand if their faces tell.
He announces that they’ve been to a kind of
karaoke,
and salutes them for colluding in
the pretence
that he is me-the-poet and worth
listening to.
His finish is a second of
self-extinction.
To one couple his thank you is in
vain;
They have stepped in for shelter
from the rain.
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