Fractions

                  what fraction

                     of time

                     is memory

what fraction

                                                                                         of silence

                                                                                         is forgetting

we were at the bar talking about second lives and in that self-containment two people can achieve, communing in a crowded room, I said, That’s what writing is, communing in a crowded room, and you said, Writing is a second life, everything else – this conversation we are now having, the wedding we have come from, the singer singing dreams and my life is changing every day – well, all this can’t just be this, can it? It’s terrifying, there is something impossible in that, the idea that this is only this, a perfectly ordinary this – so we turn, or I have turned, to writing, writing that grants a second life to things, writing that does justice to their ever having occurred at all, urged by the desire to follow a thought to see where it will lead and in the belief that this drink is more than just this drink, this song, this je bois et puis je danse more than just je bois et puis je danse, je ne sais pas comment, I am multiplying a fraction of the whole against forgetting, a fraction of that forgetting which makes remembering real, because talking to you was a gift, and we share it now, this gift, you will know when this is written that I wanted you to know this, this, 

only this

nothing put to words

ever remains silent

writing a second life

parallel to the first

two lines cross

mark us indelibly

then we were at the club dancing in the skin of our second lives and through that rhythm two people can create, moving in a still room, I wanted to say that’s what writing is, moving in a still room, but the music was too loud, and you wanted to add, writing is a second dance, all other movement – the choreography we are now making, the traffic on the highway, the swimmer freestyling in the sea and my body is moving every day, even in sleep – well, is this all the body does, just this, can it, there is something routine in that, a familiar fear this is just this, and that there is only this – so we dance, or I have danced, or we can dance, into writing, writing that performs a second dance for bodies, that gives form to their having moved at all, bent by the desire to follow a movement to see where it will turn and in the trust that this body is more than this body, a momentary body, this dance, je dance et puis je écrivez, more than just a momentary body, and so I am dividing a fraction of the whole against stillness, a fraction of that stillness that makes dancing a gift, because dancing with you was a gift, and we embody that gift, you will know when this is danced that I wanted you to know this

 nothing marked

              on this second body

 remains