ÒRAN MÀTHAIR

 

Mother,   why   cry?

 

There is       light here

 

enough to      butter our faces

“The earth,” you say,      “is going

 

to fly               away”

and then,           dangling

from sunsetʼs mouth:

“time
        drops stillness into
                              everyone”

What

​

               gentling

what sudden

                            burial

and little snouts

                       everywhere

warm

                    wildness

as if an animal

                           was opened by our

hands