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She pauses



I talk



laying tracks in a conversation

one section at a time;

not knowing where I got on,

not knowing how to get off.

Or if I want to.

Heading nowhere at a desperate rate.



Mid-track, she speaks,

as if I have arrived somewhere,

as if there is a station nearby:

I stare across the featureless plains of my momentary existence

and expire ... breathe in...breathe out...breathe in ...



I try to follow what she describes

catching torn images and fragments of sense;

but like straws fluttering about my face

the more I try to grab, the faster they fly

away.

Then I realise that there is silence again,

and another space; another space.



I talk, she listens,

and I do not know what she hears.

The clattering of track laying goes on apace

and her voice leaves no space

between my ears.



Busy Mee building bridges, busy building divides,

and if snake tracks connect...

Charlie Chan, you die!