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Third Version of A Simple Thing

There's a he and a she separated by slender wood. The graver engraves and the wood is
bitten into. Who carves and who is carved really doesn't matter. Who bites and who is bitten depends on the occasion.

Please observe the sound of a broken flip-flop from your bedroom window. It is summer and a city peasant is waving for a lighter. His skin is doughed so crudely it's hard to find his eyes. His yes is the sound of slavic clock: tak tak tak.

At the train station a final whistle cuts the air as each memory chugs away on forgotten tracks. Romantic rubbish is stuffed into recycle bins. I am carried away and pushed open by the lidless. I must mind my memories, mine the dark ripples. The meat of the body eats itself.

There’s a he and a she waving for a blue lighter through the bedroom window. It is summer and a distant train carries dough-faced passengers in the early morn. A slavic clock above a recycling bucket blinks on and off.

Please observe the slender wood as a final whistle cuts through the air. Lidless eyes are stuffed into dark ripples of skin. Ripples mix with old coal on the wet road. A train eats itself on the dark tracks.


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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

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I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…