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work in progress

A Face of Certified Holes

in the cleared mindcamp the elephant is always in the room

fear less than clear
on a flight to Belfast
to bury the dead

and couldn’t find knees

all kinds of physics at work
in the air

to trace the heat of fingers there is a kind, they say, a kind of heat, in the tracing of lives, relit, reseen, the body grown back through the feet, through the drift, stone by stone, setting eyes on, angel of the misheard, rubbings of the unreal,
the sound of hardened grass and lowered coffin, cracked and taken into, the clipped hedges grown round, flapping budgies, found in the tatters, in what’s dropped, there is a scrounging, a scourge, a rounding out in time, dug into, looked out on, grown round, come in, kissing the stone lips of the dead, a kind, they say, of certified holes, of physics, and the body repainted, remade, redone, and the bootclomps and shifted shoulders on the way to the site, angel of pampered loyalty, babies blue flowered and pink ribboned, croned, weathed, what’s out there, in the tracings, in what’s not said, re-eaten, reseen, there is always a room

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