Anam Cara

Uaigneas

Not

the blue light of his eyes

opening the net of history,

the courage of his hands

making ways of light

to the skulls of the blind,

the stories that never got in

to the testament, how they came

upon him in the lonely places,

his body kneeling to the ground

his voice poised to let antiphons

through to the soundless waste,

how her hunger invaded

until the stone of deity broke

and a fresh well sprung up,

nor why unknown to himself

he wept when he slept

a red furrow from each eye,

nor his face set to dawn

through time on canvas and icon

and his mind haunt thought,

No.

The crevice opens in Death

alone in the whisper of blood.