SELF PORTRAIT IN A TRAIN WINDOW

As Ashbery did it, writing land
My hair at Howth’s head, brushing the view’s there
Hand worlding this dizzying array, as thought too bright flecked

Water glint and vertiginous. A curlew headed whirl, hold seas,
Shore, bleated train line, aching core sings sun true boats of Her
I’m a moment now’s port sings the face, swim limbs

Through worlds hands wave lick the land
A sceptre a glint I’s wild Rape grows. Glint I’s water I’s
She’s a questing here. Eliot said, ‘Root calls ago and the dim story

Dawn’s the past’s page which weed wed knot wakes
Through words the nor weds rivers of whens
And through here arose our then.” She feels this planation,

The swim the port of face, I’s the planation, the port
Of face, I’s the planation sensing she’s moved.

AN IRISH LULLABY (WEBBLIE-WOBBLIE, WEBBLIE-WOBBLIE)

Over in Malahide
this past weekend,
the free of hushed
pooled love in the park
one along the sea with
a boat and slide for climbing
you: ‘Let’s!’ of swings,
our song in the sea’s spray…

On the webblie-wobblie, webblie wobblie,
webblie wobblie chair, where?
On the webblie-wobblie, webblie wobblie, webblie wobblie chair,
Where? In Malahide, where the wind is in our hair.

How in the future’s plunder
will we ever find our stay
to sit as loss from reach other
our faces bright with wilds.
How to here our voices
there in the worlds where
we’re culled as rock as deep
hours thronged in the sea’s spray…

On the webblie-wobblie, webblie wobblie,
webblie wobblie chair, where?
On the webblie-wobblie, webblie wobblie, webblie wobblie chair,
Where? In Malahide, where the when was in our there