by Bruce McRae
A movie I’m not meant to understand.
A silent film, but in a foreign language,
its sub-titles melting as if in a downpour,
and just the noise of the ancient projector,
with just myself in this empty cinema,
a cold hand in the buttery popcorn
and a sense that I might be missing something,
something important, but I’ll be stuffed
if I can tell you what it is at the moment.
On the mercurial screen ghostly figures
go about the business of fading from memory.
The fire curtain flutters purposelessly,
at least not for any reason I can think of,
and the critics be damned . . .