1389

1388

1387

1386

Daughter of a son of Ireland

If earth be sonned

As spectral as a perambulating Bloom

Though unlettered as the rain

Till parish note another sinner.

Son of a daughter of exile's house

If earth itself exile

Chaste in conflagration

Seared by years

Beyond a fable's solace.

Son of no one

Daughter of herself

Earth they have that never had them

The stones cast single shadows.

1385

1384

1383

1382

1381

1380

1379

Death has no being to she who dies,

But a mass of bronze to the breathing,

That the last exhale in a quiet room

Lies over the sunlit day

With a metal weight,

Its daily business sudden-false,

Mis-scaled to a purpose

That was small a breath before.

1378

1377

1376

1375

1374

1373

1372

In medias res is human

As time and action's

By thought and hapless volition born,

By hazard breathed.

At what point is a tale if

A leaf fall and re-direct the eye?

A cry in the street summon memory?

1371

1370

1369

There is a perfect quality in the cricket's voice

That grammars a late summer's city to country manner

With trilled points and stops,

Commas to part and render

A hubcap, arthropod, urbantree's

Thrum as a season's hour,

A paragraph of sound.

1368