a fire roars in foreign white ink a familiar name, no not familiar a bone-inlaid key paws open the heavy vault door one green eye one red eye laid over the mountain ascent three deer-blood lips three fir tongues, teeth cast like needles over the valley the temple the far-off glacial scar like oxen yolked their gray pupils pull through fragile forests of madness, intensity at least i think so and that counts for something no one's mad at me i'm famous and very rich and remain lazy with no guilt upon closer inspection: a mystic hand-in-paw with a brown dog 9 clay pots, they're dancing near prayer, spontaneous music of the weald.
It was late last night the dog was speaking of me,
and the gulls speaking of me, out over the field.
You were drawing water from the tap in the kitchen
and a moth was speaking of me, beating for light.
Outdoors was a blankness peopled with black angles;
waiting for the water you caught your own glance.
My eyebrows bustled, you submersed in my dressed;
then you were speaking of me, just a word, in response.
All the dogs in America have sisters of their own,
all the birds have sisters, out on the highway.
Moths have moths for sisters, beating out for light,
and I am speaking of you here, to everyone I meet.
Source: Darcy, Ailbhe. Imaginary Menagerie. Tarset, Northumberland: Bloodaxe Books, 2011, p. 31.