A chunk from one’s life irreplaceable
Nationalising train wrecks from another’s sin
A question of language eating home.
Down to the bones of me bum, laughing at poverty
I take on many tasks to see me right
Voluntarily working, suiting the nighttime
Where the moon is cried for all the time.
Slipping in and out of windows, a famously high drop
Underscores a necessity of holding the fort
With a sword in the thatch, fighting whoever
An enemy only bearing factual news.
Nothing to descend. Swearing not to have children
Close ranks with progress, sleeping in time
Wiping hands on the tablecloth in front of spies.
Not wearing a hat to keep secrets in
The dark-furnished bedroom keeps the time
Looking out for favours detached from kind
Not sullying the gait of your colleagues.
– Patricia Walsh
Hazy silk and stars
Embroidered flowers stitched
On satin strings
As evening’s final breath lingers
Kissing moonlight tendrils morning dew
His haloed cloud and misty[read more]