The stone-word

A finer-grained time lies thicker on the ground.
We take out the warm lining of overcoats,
Replace one sleeve with a sleeve of a different colour.

Beyond the slower times the city dreams itself,
Dreams of itself, its footprints, the nightwalk,
Alarm all night becomes a kind of weather.

There was no walk, not for me, nothing to read,
Sick without books, day, I wasted you,
The young, strong, demanding sun, the unwounded leaves.

Useless in the shadows of the sheds, I invented
A small abandoned notebook of doubts concerning
Words, held it between my two heart fingers.

And the sight of the end of the platform
Loosened a very long perfume that had ease
Of gathering into my ceiling blue as an eyelid.

 

 

Recent articles by Medbh McGuckian.

Two poems about women
Regaining control of the night

 

 

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