In the still world
between the covers of a book,
silk glides through your name
like a bee sleeping in a flower
or a seal that turns its head to look
at a boy rowing a boat.
The fluttering motion of your hands
down your body presses into my thoughts
as an enormous broken wave,
as a rainbow or a painting being torn
within me. I remove the hand
and order it to leave.
Your passion for light
is so exactly placed,
I read them as eyes, mouth, nostrils,
disappearing back into their mystery
like the war that has gone
into us ending,
there you have my head,
a meeting of Irish eyes
with something English:
and now,
today,
it bursts.
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