A scrap of poetry motionless in the hedge,
camouflaged,
I thought it was a leaf,
until it rose into the air and began to sing
and I recognised your voice,
emerging sweetly from the pile of gibbles
you call your sauntering outfit.
Since you took me to your bed
I have learned words I never heard before.
Your mood,
so infinitely dark,
glitters with a sharp grief
far blacker than the midnight caoróg’s shell.
I’ll add in your aspiration,
hopeless as the toy sword
on the arse end of a gary-gowlan.
And from the dusty kippins
as you light a malm of turf mole,
a rising cloud of bees
transmutes into a hundred clumsy blue bottles,
good not for honey
but for the maggoty tidying up of corpses.
And now you want to die?
What kind of a response is that
from a beloved dictionary?
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