my I reflects
in a darkened void of mirror window
the self of the journey
of 8 couches of the abandoned dreams
heading south
and it feels just like
away
escaping ticking clocks
happy expectations of the written names
bonds roots blood ties
and headache - most intense of love
heading home
with cold chills collecting under
the skin of hopes disguised as
lies promises perfections
most cruelly grown upon
the bones of self

how tight this flesh becomes
when I start living it
how light it is
when it lives me

Balmy as summer. It won't last.
The wind is idling somewhere
Out to sea, making its mind up.
No bells. Silence is a state of grace
<...>
Their motions slow, deliberate as dreams.
<...>

Eamon Grennan
from Sunday Morning Through Binoculars