There is still this: a
breeze coming through
the window at nine as I talk
on the phone to someone
who is not you. There is still
this: the comfort of black tea,
hot, already the second cup of
day two. One day at a time, like
an alcoholic recovering, my friend
counsels: I read in the tea a promise:
things will blow over the holes left
by your silence, the absence of
your voice.
The Canberra Times, March 2004