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friday poem

The Secret of Why We First Took to Our Feet

the brain weaves a strange kind of music and our bodies
seem unable to forget
the memory of what it feels like
to be properly whole
all I have said is truly a conversation
with light as a shadow puppet
among the living
we can find breathing but we can’t find air
that defective space under which
all our selves co-mingle
springtime is a time
of limited air
and many contagions
beauty is outlawed
or injected as a drug
and all our never again
makes breathing hard
it’s in the air between
you and me baby
a special way
of fucking your self
you’ve come to understand
the mask as an image
the image as a house of cards
a collapsible organ
in the centre of the chest

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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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