When they finally find me
Blesséd be his hands, wroughtwith steel and iron, dusted with ash.His days were endless,
I’m not home / to mow the grass
What matters isThat we already knew this was over I don’t really see a point in continuingThis conversation.
Every bird poem sends meto the same place: the cliffmiles past the petrol stationwhere my ex and I bought coffeeon our way to Dunmore Head.