Preachers feed the flames,
Myriad galaxies explode—
  .  .  .  Dim fires of the mind.

What Gods have mercy?
The fertile plains— all on fire,
Tiger in the grass  .  .  .

Falcon roams the sky—
A poet has come and gone,
  .  .  .  Even moon searches.

In sorrows' garden,
Out of clear blue sky— omen,
Small floating feather.

Sea town from the bluff,
Early autumn snow flakes fly—
  .  .  .  Sailboats ply harbour.

Winter leaving, slips—
Forest draped in magenta sun,
Birches in painted clothes.

In the house of the unsaid
Tears are glass beads that drop
The ***** on the bone china

Blood spittles the lips, hair
Raises the dead the cut
Rosary roils and dents

Harmony’s rumour spouts
In the sink. The clock’s twitching
Strikes a mongoosed hour.

And the scattered stations run
The rude wood splinters
As the unsaying are floored

Clouded eyes pain the glass
Outside the house, bare
Trees are leaved with ravens.

If I touch your face—
With lips, cool as cave water,
I am wishing well.

With wings at rest longer than its tail
My hobby waits.  Great bird of creation,
Where do you come from?  As I sit and mull
You take flight to and from places I may
Never know,
                            Where are you taking me,
Great spirit on high, far, farther-ring with light
And the wind, which streams then to delirium
Heights?  I am bled and I am torn.  Must I
Suffer in my soaring?  Your clutch, tings
The sky, pierce the cloud, my hobby hovers,
I dream of coronations, talons to my head—
A crown of thorns.

The sea gulls— who fly in wanton
To the horizon, are a spirits
calling, are sea songs falling
To my mind they falter— as I
Have known such cozen to the sun
That falls each day nor do I see
It rising.  My world is weighted,
Under, pass the lining of the quick,
By the mounted cloud which hangs silver
Over the plated night. The owl,
Whose eyes of Janus tails, when wanes
The lids, tied to crescent holey
Whelm of malevolent moon,

Praise over me, with wooly wings,
Is silent as shadow.  I may strut or run
But they do come as the shadows will
With cahooting sun, and the blotting
Bald faced moon, chiaroscuro—
The days feign and heaven pales under
The wake of the luna sea.

       In darkest daylight
I shamble toward the flat horizon
Where the seabirds fly, till their ends,
I take two-faced my faulty comfort
As I see them, falter, falling, yet never
Do they touch the gloaming ground.

Loon, moans in distance,
Grey mountain smears the pale sky,
  .  .  .  Not even moon breaks.

One flash, frozen in light,
The burning of her eyes
Fell my sprocketed night,
Deep in flames shudder,
All language, new, cipher,
Filmy frame, truest colours.

In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should

You query, her name's a pond.  In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin.  Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan.  Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent

Stones.  Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,

Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies

Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew.  O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right

To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon

The doons.  In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!