a thin, inconspicuous poetry, persisting on the margins
MacKerral, that was one hard winter. Your father died on the moor road,his bag of meal buried under snows.Death relieved him of his load. Raking wilks with freezing fingers,your little sisters crawled the shore,scourged by gusting showersuntil their knees were raw and sore. Your few black cattle, thin and famished,lay and died at the far […]
A mean wind wanders through the backcourt trash.
Hackles on puddles rise, old mattresses
puff briefly and subside…