Porphyry cobbles in the driveway. Pink going red. *** At the edge of a benevolence by means of affiliation. And held up there, in an experience given multiple entries like hatches of periwinkles. Or given a ―moment‘s pause with the color of it,‖ but still insensible to the signature changes that fling us into an assertion of ourselves in a garden lettered with birds. The yellow-shouldered grosbeak pishes-in real well. A flicker in its starring role as flicker hiccups over the continuous world— As the waiter places a dish of garlic olive oil on the white tablecloth, we return to ourselves, fog ladled into a pasture. On the plate, black Bolivian potato cakes. And we were arguing about what? with warm plantains at arm‘s reach.
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DUBLIN POETRY REVIEW