My silver sister reaches me, chinwagging

over the treetops, over the distance

that is closed. I heard my first voice

when I was in bed with her, bruising

the blue futon with shapes. Those

were days when ‘Instant Travel,’

‘Hypertext At The Gates of Dawn,’

and ‘Lucy In The Soul W/ Demons’

were among the titles in my repertoire; days

I said I’d plug my senses in the mains;

days I had an effervescent mobile phone;

days I was still recording on binaural earphones

back in my Gap Year haunt of Cambridge

even though I was at my own University.

This body is a terrible bean pole of

negative sexual energy, but she

sensed a free pint of Guinness in my words.

Only apt then that it should be like this, hearing

the scorched earshot of voices resound, including

her attempts to drive me to the heart

before the others drive me to the grave.