My eyes are suture closed.
I walk in a street
with no names and no windows.
The trill of a penny whistle
twists my neck.
A voice that does not know
who to call
rises in my throat.
Each word
is a single
stubborn letter.
They form a wind
that sounds
through invisible strings.
Dark within dark.
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It's nice to read a fine poem by a good writer all the way from Scotland--or maybe it's Spain at this time.
ReplyDeleteDonal Mahoney