The Warehouse

We slept high above the music room
in lofts, gazing out picture windows
at stars obscured by city lights.
Nina Hagen and Billie Holiday
hung in the air
as we fell off in dreams
beneath ocean blue ceilings,
lulled by the rhythm
of our neighbours' lovemaking,
while the cat crawled around
our entwined ankles
searching for space between us.

In the summer heat we hid
from the vigilant fire inspector,
in rooms disguised with old posters
of badly performed plays
put on by friends who sipped beer
pulled from the silver and gold fridge
we painted but never defrosted.

On sunny days we planted marigolds
in the ceramic bathtub
left on the sidewalk by the plumber
from the main floor.
We never remembered his name or to water,
always remembered to pray for rain.

At night we rode the freight elevator
past our neighbours,
sculptors, musicians and dancers,
the creators of light and sound
and the darkness you sometimes crawled toward.

When I couldn't sleep
I would sit behind the big black desk,
in the big black director's chair,
listening to far off rhythms,
smoking and writing
smoking and writing
stale outlines for impotent plots.

When I was done
I packed my words,
leaving them trapped
behind a thinning silkscreen
you hung by the front door
to keep the world at a veiled distance,
then climbed in beside you
emembering you had told me once
to be glad for fresh blossoms
as they are yesterday's seeds
then I would fall into dreams
knowing tomorrow would bring new flowers
and we would begin again.


words: Bonnie Nish, Canada (Pandora's Collective)
photo: Dorothee Lang, Germany (blueprint21)


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