Too late, but not too late for me to hide
these sorry features further in the shade,
as huge projected faces loom and slide
away into their screen; I want to go
where images and ghosts stagger and slow,
past time that passes over or below
my heart shunting its blood too late; and as
the screenlight glances from her now, she is
beautiful like a star in the silent pictures,
all eyes, all eyes, and twice her lifesize tall,
falling away from me, into nightfall.
A shadow leaves its shadow on the wall.
• From The Gifts of Fortune by Peter McDonald, published by Carcanet (£11.99).
Poem of the month: Cinematic by Peter McDonald
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