I have heard you in the hedgerow
In the hedgerow of Heaney
Where Wilde has haunted me
In the briars of a blood-red Robin
Sings the crown of Lorca on the featherbeds
In the hills of Laugharne
The slaughtered bull
Of Neruda grieves me
Like a prayer from Dylan Thomas
In the marriage of Finnegan’s wake
All but mollycoddled conundrums have lost
In the
Languished vagrant migrant veils of osterity
Words are but blossoms
In blood
At swim two birds
In the vagrant fires
I have met thee
Solved in the gray stones of rugged hard times
In the broken bones of my father
I have risen, above the naked sorrow of a Redpole
Dressed in the insignificance of laughter
I will slaughter thee
In the wings of barbed wire
I will slaughter thee
There are
Only words
On the bones of Yeats
Like an owl devours her prey
I have eaten from
Such whims
O death, I shall slaughter thee
O Yeats
I shall come for thee
No matter what
Sometimes love, knocks only
Once
.
.
