Wanderer,
on howling hope
love charms are weaved.

Stay for a while
in my porch,
hum a melody
and dance with me.

The night will linger,
all words hollowed,
all roads erased.

Yet, wanderer,
for just a while,
if you will,
enchant hope,
unchain this burst.

Stir...stir around the last of the winter leafs
and rest one at my feet.
It is here, in the dark of morning that everything is raw and truly seen.
It is hard to believe that anything exists beyond this,
silenced reality, nocturnal bliss.
Living in the head becomes living outside,
till the sun comes up and draws up the blinds.
My soul dies a tiny death;
daylight takes a glorious breath
and I wait.
Even though always in time,  
almost always too late.   
A mirror to the sky,
another beautiful mistake.  
A sigh that screams
like broken dreams -
 'That’s what I’ll do if that’s what it takes'
Not totally alive,
but afraid I might die of all the suppressed why’s. 
The haunting roads not taken...
I must have been mistaken...
maybe not...
once or twice
but I couldn’t find my mind!
It's always been here,
at times a little hazy inside...
saved usually by the light of moon;
crystal clarity in a coin shaped cocoon.

Forest fires erupt in my cold veins, every time the corners of your mouth curve upwards.

Flesh is heretic.
My body is a witch.
I am burning it.

Yes I am torching
ber curves and paps and wiles.
They scorch in my self denials.

How she meshed my head
in the half-truths
of her fevers

till I renounced
milk and honey
and the taste of lunch.

I vomited
her hungers.
Now the ***** is burning.

I am starved and curveless.
I am skin and bone.
She has learned her lesson.

Thin as a rib
I turn in sleep.
My dreams probe

a claustrophobia
a sensuous enclosure.
How warm it was and wide

once by a warm drum,
once by the song of his breath
and in his sleeping side.

Only a little more,
only a few more days
sinless, foodless,

I will slip
back into him again
as if I had never been away.

Caged so
I will grow
angular and holy

past pain,
keeping his heart
such company

as will make me forget
in a small space
the fall

into forked dark,
into python needs
heaving to hips and *******
and lips and heat
and sweat and fat and greed.

Here is the city—
its worn-down mountains,
its grass and iron,
its smoky coast
seen from the high roads
on the Wicklow side.

From Dalkey Island
to the North Wall,
to the blue distance seizing its perimeter,
its old divisions are deep within it.

And in me also.
And always will be.

Out of my mouth they come:
The spurred and booted garrisons.
The men and women
they dispossessed.

What is a colony
if not the brutal truth
that when we speak
the graves open.

And the dead walk?