For the times aheadwhen we will be as if at either endof the long bench where distance keptis love’s measure and death dancesthe space between when words aloneare not enough and queued memories reach out to touch let longing be a storeof nut and seed that grows each day in strange hibernation readying for its […]
The stones face each other
in rows like booth-style
compartments in old trains.
from which the grieving
can dial the numbers
of their lost ones and speak
to the listening dead.
what a moment
it is to die
Love, forget me when I’m gone,When the tree is overthrown,Let its place be digg’d and sownO’er with grass ;—when that is grown,The very place shall be unknown,So court I oblivion.So I charge thee, by our love,Love, forget me when I’m gone. Love of him that lies in clayOnly maketh life forlorn—Clouding o’er the new-born dayWith […]
a’ ruighinn doras gealltanach
’s a’ fosgladh ri briseadh-dùil.
Needles plunge. Consultants come and go.
Today, leukocytes are easy to locate;
tomorrow, next year, they may sink below.
Listen, back in ‘74
I shot a crow with such force
its body cannoned into its partner,
dropped the pair from the sky.
Twin postcards
After she died, I swear the sky
/ Had the most beautiful of all sunsets,
/ A blush of pink, then red, a glass…
Certain women. And some young boys.
/ Women with some uncertainties
/ but something they knew about
/ that made them need to say something.
/ Two of…
Two days before your death, you wrote / There is not much to report from here.
