Monday, January 25, 2010

Black Irish


Your limbs are choppy: elbows that stutter,
and nervous, Morse-tap knees. They spell
our names in Ogham, incomprehensible.
And your eyes have been rinsed out again.
I should have guessed. You have mislaid
your ragged-winged umbrella, your mascara,

again, and I think again you lost your rings.
Crow, rasp your resined bow so that my down
jumps on edge, my teeth raze my words and then
we intersect again. This macadam, it begs
our cataracted soles, the starless scrape
of our cab's brake, our fingerprints, partings.

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