Too many years up and down the world
chasing some light that goes out.
She’s always moved, the job turns out
to be some people talking in a train.
Some work up cures for new diseases,
some we never see decode our traffic.
Others are mapping the new dictatorships,
others the movies they will make of them.
But all night long I have been underwater
mining the harbours off Nicaragua,
I need a place to dress up in my uniform.
I have a deal for you. I’m your imaginary friend.
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.
