Shiftless, sifting the air,
Plunging gyrations,
Crow speak
Hackle, hacking;
Speckles the sky.

Saw the air whittle to smoke,
Black mar in the weir of wings
And mankind muddled in the wraith,
Slowly streams a bread trail
Forth and back;
Black bleeding.

I see your claw tracks,
Dark-digging-sparkle
Plain in the muck,
Needles threading,
A trail of stars.

Wine, spinning, we dine,
Candles and moon making love,
.  .  .  Sparkle in her eyes.

Bed under full moon  .  .  .
Bodies bathed in cold flame,
  .  .  .  Old lover visiting.

Rua
Dearg,
Rua, roselet,
Gruaige na fíniúna agus scarlet
Fíonchaora, drown me i do deoch
As liopaí, fíona, Ruby, flesh an paisean
Torthaí agus adharc de neart,
Earthen meirge de pebbled cré
Tarraing mé mar uisce seeping
Isteach uiscígh ársa, ualaithe, i bhfolach
Faoi vastness Sahára
Sands. Tá mé scamall de aisling
Drifting, itching, edging chomh maith do chothromú
Hills. Do ******* sruthán mé mar gaile,
Tá do chluasa le haghaidh doves neadaithe
Agus do shúile, tá an spéir ag fanacht, cogaíochta
Le farraige, le haghaidh a dath,
Is é an ghrian wandering strainséir
Mar a thiteann sé, dar críoch gach lá, faded
Mar an fathach gásach de Antares faint,
Eclipsed ag do heavenly
Foirm, do lasair Vulcan
An tsolais.

She prolongs agony,
Razor lips cut so sweetly—
Can we be just friends?

Backward-man loves his dog.
Ties him up before and after
His walks, likes to goad his pet
Too, speaking as the weather wails
And howls then dog looks down,
Sad on his master dumbfounded.
A chain is worn as it scrapes
The ground connecting dog
To his master.  They both love
The sound of it hissing as it strikes
The concrete pathways, sometimes
Man and dog feel free, not a part
Of each other, the chain may break,
And fear is for forks in the road,
The rusty pockmarked grip of his links
Have always been there on walks
Ahead and behind though it makes
Things confusing as if in a dance
And sometimes they wonder which way
They might end up after all—
And when the dark and golden
Rope, as always, is finally tied
To some old fruit tree, the man
Is happy his dog has both sun
And shade, but also has joy watching
Dog beg for ripe apples he cannot
Reach.  Some people might come
To think that dog thinks those apples
Are not for eating.  Everyone loves
Fruit, don't they?

Backward-man built his dog
A house as cold as a three-
Storied barn, out of things
He could not afford, things much
Too good for dog to not care
About, maybe man built dog's
House for himself, he cannot
Really impress his dog.
Backward-man likes to think
He knows what dog is saying.
Barks and whimpers have deep
Meanings, 'world is a good place,'
Dog says, but when pooch says,
'World is cruel,' crying, disobedient
Whines gets him a serious kick
Out of old anger from backward-
Man.  And man can be a hell-
Hound on his own, the way
He twists and unravels the things
He needs, like truth and food
And love— that goes without
Saying for backward-man hates
His woman, but loves his dog.

—for Síneánn

We drove to a lost, lonely isle,
And where, if only once to find
Ourselves sown again, belonging
Wholly to the keep of faraway strands
That hours tided us in beads and wave,
The nascent sea whispering aloft and birds
Cascading as we flew, to sail under moving
And hoary dunes with stellar eyes of poppies
Wild, such breathtaking strides for we to make
And the sun set dripping and lowly swept ashore
Away to us on breaths of gentle crests breaking,
We spoke sundry nothings, as if to know things
So simple are to be kept wanting nor ever said,
The lonely, dull star of day fell sleepy, dimmed
By sparks, the shimmer to our eyes—

                                                               So clear,
Shall be the hills of the fair isle to us, will always
Remain caste with new lamb and crowned deer,
By thorn and thistle and rimmed with broken shells
Rung on marbled beach, singular, before innocence
And grace, by skip ****** lovers cradled in only sky
To be joined, with the lined hands of long night stars,
Finally reaching in the jeweled glass by the running
Grains polished, a gild castle moat, stained into ocean
Salt, always by the sea of windows glory and joys given
To each, ever to be ****** upon the high tunes eternal,
Beside the stations of grass and drifted heartwoods,
Among wings by the slip of tides, ripped monumental;

Till when we drove away, this time, in a carriage stall
And all the tumbles of sand into eyes crumbled to end,
We drove ourselves back to riven sleep, a stark beyond
The fallen wayfare columns of momentary paths, we cut
Home, trudging through the garden forests and inlet
Bays on serpentine road, always ever to cross—
A bridge of sighs.

It is over now.
I bow my head as you leave,
Rain fills your footprints.

Our time flicked with drops of summer,
The numberless nodes, mellow cicadas,
Pixelated a world swirling of music—
All dates, sweet tabulations of primes,

The savours swelling in fragrant breeze,
The still waters of pond mist and flame,
How your eyes, with mine, gazed into—
O sleepy windows of eyes being born,

Flowers made a bed and we drank it all,
The light of the sun as it passed in grace
And the birds sang songs of remembrance,
Water fell but once from mothering skies,

Wind whined, such days could never last,
One flesh of burgeoning— moon in the grass.

My heart is quaking  .  .  .
So deep my feelings for her,
  .  .  .  Even the earth moves.

Cool room, most steamy,
I wait with heated towels,
  .  .  .  Her bath almost done.

Younglings got ******* up,
Love, antiquated notions,
  .  .  .  Mobile devices.

She was guiding steps  .  .  .
My brave face trussed our way,
  .  .  .  One hand behind her.