She walks the corridor, trailing her wedding dress. There's no bun in the oven, no love letter expiring on the coffee table, nothing sticky between her fingers. All afternoon she watched them curry the horses, the whish, seeing the oiled hide shiver under her skirt. No one imagines the safety pin in her bra strap….
What's more luxurious than reclining all day on a little green couch, awaiting evening and the artist's return? The hand that props her head into daylight is fading, the sun has slipped from here hours ago, its shadow crossing through pastures south and east of the artist's home. These are his pears, ripening in a…
I sit with Mick McGinn and watch the swallows Dipping till they nearly touch the roadway. He tells me the rain is sure to return. A heavy sky is holding the insects down. At evening, off the road to Annaghmakerrig, Two horses are running, their silk flanks shining, The pool they run by starred with…
It rains and it keeps raining, and there is no sound except the sound of the rain falling, a sound with small silences in between, like music we can't understand, expecting each moment to be filled with something. The sound does not explain the trees, the yellow trees, whose leaves are falling like the rain,…
Between a rock and a hard place I lay down and let the sea do its worst. Waves trumpetted. Spray shot up in a whirlwind. Far from the tree I had fallen and like bladderwrack lay thinking only of you who knows what to do with love besides work it into flesh. The tide rode…
.1 He stopped in for a beer on his way home from work. Shortly after his arrival two men armed with guns entered the bar. Whether they were out to get a cop or were primarily interested in robbery and figured what the hell they'd get a cop too, Whether the bartender gave him up…
You helped me stow these pages in a knapsack, Tossed me a blessing, “Do sit near the wings,” And I was airborne. Small hours of panic Now dissolved in birdsong, your look at parting Lights my work-desk under an Ulster roof. The book I gave you is dead manuscript, Say the grim instructions for reading…
Intelligence moves me, I am moved by first movement as a soul is moved to enter body, as a star, possessed of mind, burns passionless for many lifetimes, as a tree does meditate continually, branches driven upward unceasingly by first movement, leaves driven to sing with fluent urgency of water, wind, and light, as I…
A hanging fat rabbit leaks in the pantry, and the ants with rifles march to battle. Grapes in the still life go rotten. El Greco painted for the sixteenth century then, for a long time, for no one; now, in the twentieth, there's an El Greco again. Also sixteenth century, his hand on his hip,…
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