you follow a trace of footprints smudged ash-green, but they disappear
Destinations
Birthday
When you were fourteen your bones sprang from your body like knives
Tullamore
For centuries a whiskey town Distilling Molloy's firewater And a Phoenix town Risen from the flames Of accidental destruction Caused by a hot air balloon; The first ever aviation disaster Here in Ireland.
Back from an MRI and At 80
Back from an MRI brain scan I listen to a Miles Davis album Black Hawk San Francisco 1962 Where a young Latina And I grooved on the vibes
This Is the World We Live in Tomorrow
Before you enter this run-
down house, drink caffeine.
As you approach,
ignore baseball-busted
window on second floor—
you’ll never leave first. Follow
creaky path down dank hall
to third door, the only room
with blue lights dimmed. Take
a seat before the console
of your choice. Start to play
don’t stop. Don’t eat. Don’t
sleep. Let time escape
like the caged bird
from my bedroom,
the last heart-beating thing
touched by anyone
who’s ever come here.
After Dark
Steel on stone
Hydraulic hammers
Artillery like
Shake the ground,
Pulverising
Architecture
Of past decades
Too expensive
For renovation,
Too difficult