Small Hours

 

“I Lost my bottle

when you are

you threw your arms around me

sending you back to her

although I could never keep you

caught in the impossibility

of choice

of love

of freedom

of loss

and arms your love

feels around me”

                         Donnellan, Desmond

***

The bog that was the sink

and the leeching

brown gurgling

of days

stretching

and piling

Among the cracks

dripping

time drags

the leaking of

moldy teabags

congealed

drains, echoes

plummeting

Heavy in the air

wine only

got thicker as

sluggish, the words

tumbled

crawling

from your pen

“you lost your bottle”

****

The radical

merciless perspective

the angular change in vision

that death forces

upon the living

****

                      

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