just the two of us maybe

And yet another personal, private utopia. The most difficult to get to, the most precious.

An internal geography, nowhere to be found.


A life without location -
just the two of us
maybe, or a few -

keeping in closeup:
and the colours -
and just the colours

coming from the common source
one after the other
on a pulse;

and passing around us,
turning about and
flaking to form a world,

patterning on the need of a world
made on a pulse.
That way we keep the colours,

till they break and go
and leave no trace; nothing
that could hold an association.


Roy Fisher, 'Without Location', Poems 1955-1980 (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1980), pp. 115-16.