i remember this woman
at saint bartholomew's
church, but nothing else
about her.

crosses so deep in my memory.

hazy crosses branded
on my mind.

finally, i shot the crucifix on my bedroom wall.  it was not a cross.
i knew the difference.  the bullet hit the plaster before the wood.

we both remembered our expectations.  the way we thought things may be.  

we would see some people we had seen or had known before, but not many.
almost all would be complete strangers.  and there were some who
would be taking a different  road.
we didn't know the roads yet.
we didn't know the directions.

we thought that there would always be an air of uncertainty in a cold flat.  who was knocking?

i thought it would be more of a distillation.

a long horizon line, without interruptions.

no feints.  a cool, slow walk down the road
lit by a single lamp.

the sky meets the ocean like a couple in love forever.

arthur, smile for the camera.

 fire for illumination.

say cheese.          cheese.

the fire (the light) will be so hot that it may scorch your face.

then i will take your photograph.  it is for identification.

photographs don't lie.  everyone knows that.

you couldn't live without him.

i couldn't live without him.

you had to go with him.

i couldn't let him go alone.

there was the muslim man.  he called himself an inventor.
i suppose he was.  he made things.  yet, not quite the way wood made flames.

he said he liked to look.

the wood made flames play music.

he said his ability to look, to see was his gift.  he was an inventor,
remember?  maybe more of a designer.

for weeks and months, at any time of the day,

arthur had visions

of a train going right through his head.

like a film, even with scratches.  45027 engine right between
his eyes.  low, steady percussion.

they last maybe five minutes.  wonderful.  a gentle whoosh...

i never discouraged  those visions.

arthur, do you remember that night before?  stranmillis road.  belfast.  1948.

do you remember the man with the horn?  we could see his silhouette through the window..

you were in bad shape.  i had to hold you.  just from house to house.  they were looking for you.
but you did hear the man with the horn.  didn't you?

that woman.  who is she?  i told arthur we are lovers and fighters now.  we can leave all the rest behind.  we can say good-bye to all that.  we can love.  and we fight against.  there is always a cause.  there is always something to fight for.

arthur said that when he looked up from his chin in black mud
he saw that woman's image on the train.  it glistened but not
like a reflection.  it seemed to emanate from within the train.

he said that he had seen her before.  he could see inside the train
now.  she was typing something.  part of a story.  he remembered that
she had thin ankles.

i was limping, lurching to the train.

there was no way that i could catch it.

there was nowhere left to go.

it was moving so fast.

i wanted a closer look.  

to get someone else to kill us...

that was so romantic.

i didn't think that i could love you more.

lukey gave me the idea.  he said he saw it in a film.  london 1948.

this is a true story.

the thrill of it all

was in the movement,

in the eyelid's vibrations,

in the reaching, in the desire

for the light, in the light.