We talk together of things that matter
but not to each other.
On the roof, the rattling rain,
envious of its kin
falling directly into the harbour,
descends to join up,
incessant as conversation
until it stops.

Hearing what you say, I startle
at my own silent response.
I wonder how could anyone mean
what I think I hear you say.

I am sure you are saying something.
People do.

I remark the unusual stillness of masts
of boats we both see
moored for all this weekend
while the rain comes down
drowning the joy, savings, and daydreams
of the holiday makers who hired them.

When I tell myself my life story
it rings false
in the first person
because I’ve continued
to assimilate
so long
that I succeeded
long ago
in becoming no one.

I can tell you are not listening,
which is what I said.

My ego descends from the porous roof
of the air castle
it made up while you talked,
or was that me?