Poetry: Breakages | clivejames.com
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There is a short film of Garbo,
somewhere in the reels and rushes
of preserved monochrome that no-one knows about,
somewhere in the last cabinet that Doctor Caligari
would ever look in, right at the back,
seared in black and white, in which, unawares,
she throws her shoulders into laughter, the sky goes dark
and all the glasses on the drinks table shatter to pieces.

I know this because I have seen the remake
as you look across at me when I say that you
could be a big-screen idol,
postmodern Ninotchka, and you laugh
with a laugh that could put broken glass back together,
if you wanted to, that is; I wish I'd never met you.