Anam Cara

Self-Distance

Near me

scents of bath oil

veiled by her dress.

Near me

in a language I cannot receive

a lone tree stirs

to nurse the air.

Near me

the dark crouched

in you leaks to

soot the light.

Near me

estranged from his bones in Fanore

the silence of my father

hears me.

Near me

the frustration, the invisible

sculptures, thoughts make

on unmirrored air.

Around me

black streams

through the silence

of white bone.

Somewhere inside

the wings of the heart

make their own skies.

In me

a tenderness I find

hard to allow.