"And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.”
for T.P. Flanagan
We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening -
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Is wooed into the cyclops’ eye
Of a tarn. Our unfenced country
Is bog that keeps crusting
Between sights of the sun.
They’ve taken the skeleton
Of the Great Irish Elk
I am the artful voyeur / of your brain’s exposed / and darkened combs, / your muscles’ webbing / and all your numbered bones.
—"Punishment," Seamus Heaney (via love-some-gallifrey-boys)
Good boy… *pop*