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Everything is in its place
spinning round and round
the tune cut into the black grooves
the lights wobbling slightly,
tassels flying like bats,
intruding shadows creeping
round the back of things
keeping themselves hidden
giving just a hint that there is
there really is another world,
with characters with which only music
She is gently aware that she is
only a shadow too, her head
swinging like a pendulum
hanging upwards. It’s all a miracle
that any of it exists. Even
the shelves are quite impossible.
The way she leans from lamp
to lamp, staying in the light,
not to disturb the electricity
which is enchanting the floor
as she glides over to where
earlier today she found his painting.
She didn’t know he was a painter.
She touches it with care
having balanced it on an easel,
contemplating how he’s used oils
to paint their ideal house.
Such expression of emotion!
Such sweeps of colour!
What is better, she wonders,
the house inside his mind,
or the home in which she now lives.
Who can tell which one is hers?