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Your tears strike
the frozen sleet below.
I shuffle to pick them up
because diamonds
are irrefutably too precious
to be wasted away
on such an ungrateful surface.
Full steam ahead, at last,
No journey into the past,
Solar flares with clues
To our lives, nothing to do with you,
Full steam ahead, Oh no,
More like steady as she goes,
On track for peaceful days,
Serene golden years is the way....
Feedback welcome.
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?
Every night I try to press myself
into the pages of my favorite book,
and every night I realize that the spine
is too weak to hold onto all the extra vowels.

So instead,  
I tear out every single page.
I fold them into paper airplanes,
each with my lip stain on the wing,
and I scatter them in your yard.
I watch every one glide and soar
until it crashes, even after I've
woken the neighbors. Even after
your parents have called the police.
Even after you stand in front of me,
so close that all I can do is crush them
against your chest.
Edited QUITE A BIT
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