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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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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…