Wines and Walks
Wine lies on her fingertips
The red silhouettes her breast
Addressed, to her lover so much
Younger than she.
Needles wheeling the pillowtip
And it slipped, the sharded glass
Cutting the finger form, and of it
Crashed the blood.
Many a man has loved her,
Many more tried, trying too
Hard, too little, too patient
Older and wiser the man arrives
Crying his hands to the heart
Of a lover who mothered him
In the cold Irish night, to the cold
Monies he left her, cushioned
By longing, belongings becoming
A period’s strain, the chains he called
By a friendlier name, now shattered
Walking the broken pathways.