Two Poems

Falling Out

                           the world spins above our heads
                          but nothing drops,
                          nothing falls
                           —Seán Hewitt, “Suibhne dreams of Eorann”

Like tired soldiers dismissed from formation.
Like a bouquet tossed from a window. Defenestration.
Like a wobbly tooth.
Like hair from an anxious scalp.
The argument. The divide.
Like a hypothesis.
Like a discovery.
Like the unexpected. Expected. Expecting.
Like a bedlamite.
Like the rain, the snow, the sleet,
the detritus of explosions, eruptions, forest fires, nuclear catastrophes.
Like a jumper.
Like the undissolved in a colloid, a cyst, a blister, a bleb.
The departure.
But nothing really falls in falling out of love.
Like a fade-out at the end of a film,
the shot just disappears.



aubad (sic)

I wake before dawn
and hear not what
I used to… zephyrs
to my nape. No. No
more lovely mornings.
Now I hear his grunts,
snorts, snores—as well
sighs. I give him that.
He is not happy either,
and I do not hate him.
But the day—now every
day darkens at sunrise.