The Life of the Living Room
with my eyes closed
I take aim at the centre of a moving target
at those beatles in the grooves
in the old times
at the needle which hoards and couples
for the dark heart of the record.
In that face was you
your lunatic eyes bewildered
sending the stylus awry
and on your other side
my furrowed ear
An interior snail
a metallic sound of ripples
like days rekindled
grew with us
the ones from the El vapor de la carrera
aboard the ship of music
towards which country at which checkpoint
the border of age
awaited our arrival.
Nightfall on a rekindled day:
we have come to this point.
The room now broadcasts
its acoustics through the house
like a mother mistress of horror
who in the long term marks
what has come to an end.
Our own private realm of listening
densely cushions us
the married couple riveted
plumping up the armchairs
which buried in the resources of time
bore the weight of friends
living their performances here
in the living room of this conversation.
They're not here anymore but to evoke them
(Do you remember what you used to say?)
fills a book with quotations
with laughter it fills this moment to the brim;
to write for them is contagious
in a trance
of spirited joy.