253.
No one can read it all the way
through
even a single sentence is infinite
a verb is an abyss
he talked about language till it
silenced him
humidity abolishes conversation
it is the sea come back to claim us
escapees
our local habitation golden trowel
round the town
hedges of Donegal all gorse and
fuchsia
map the country where my body lives
wherever cold is comfort
half the folk you meet aren’t really
there
vanish into that lush green hill.
254.
The home I never had is you
the god of communication is the god
of secrets kept
power of the hermetic axe with two
blades
wings on his heels he shows and hides
wherefore set we down words on paper
hoping substance hides what meaning
says
every language foreign to a thing
we live in darkness with skins of
light
where Hermes is heaven is a letter
you can’t yet read
spend all your nights deciphering
this touch
brutal answer of a cloudless day
it must mean something if it is.
