Very tricksy are the Irish
aunts, adroit at half truths,

needing a tragedy for definition,
No one spins it quite as they,

gold from straw. Sometimes
they look at me, unsure, as if

I might say. And Eleanor jumped
from a bridge which alters most

things. Sharp as tin, the women
slipstitch outward signs to

fine linen; shuffle inner grace;
thumb rainbeads on fibreoptic

trees; rub crumbs for sparrows.
Uncomforted, in baleen clouds

I see the subtle shades of avalanches.
I wave her name like a white flag.

Not knowing the god language,
I learn these things off

by my heart. Pulling down icons,
find I love them as they fall.