Tattoo shadows
These things we carry in us, in our children.
The Sea in Me
A walk with me
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Sonder
walking along with the trees in Orbit— I’m thinking of how they rotate around each other as I walk as if I am the one still, and they are spinning around me when Earth carousels the Sun feels as Sun around Earth.
May mourning
('Darkness to Light' Phoenix Park, Dublin, 2026)
songs from the edge
In late Spring, the trees assemble themselves in theatres of light they wave and bend— attend to one another choral sounds ascend— in uncontainable thrust birdsongs undulate— their long mosaics from the dark.
Iris
Winter of intricate pattern waited patiently— for the letting alone of things and all— not happening now.
Poetry is not the most popular art
inaccessible— stale and dated (some say) what can we do? to change that our lives don't often feel as a continuous lyric, or as the tender hang— between notes bursts of astonishment about why we are here at all what if poetry wasn't the distraction from reality?
Anthropocene
I don't track the units our house uses admit to hot steamy musings— the indulgent art of daytime baths the damage from nesting upon hearths— smoken open fires I am the reckless owner of a second car.
Postscript
(for my children)
Bloodbloom
(a beginning)
Kites
there’s a dream caught in the kite stuck high in the tree— billowing freedom the playful steps of squirrels chasing each other blindly round and around, clinging— to eighty rings of trunklife time passes— loved.