(i.m. Pearse Hutchinson)
When I was reading his
Collected Poems yesterday,
I encountered the remains of a fly
flattened in the entomb-ology
of pages too-long unopened.
With a touch of my finger the fly
began to fall asunder. First to go
were the transparent wings.
What remained had the look of a dark
spearhead, and when I teased it further,
particles of black dust came away
leaving a grey nothing
which slid into the stitching
and couldn't be dislodged,
becoming a tiny smudge
between ‘The Ghost of a Kiss’
and ‘British Justice’.
Ciaran O’Driscoll’s poem is from his latest collection, Angel Hour (SurVision Books)
When I was reading his
Collected Poems yesterday,
I encountered the remains of a fly
flattened in the entomb-ology
of pages too-long unopened.
With a touch of my finger the fly
began to fall asunder. First to go
were the transparent wings.
What remained had the look of a dark
spearhead, and when I teased it further,
particles of black dust came away
leaving a grey nothing
which slid into the stitching
and couldn't be dislodged,
becoming a tiny smudge
between ‘The Ghost of a Kiss’
and ‘British Justice’.
Ciaran O’Driscoll’s poem is from his latest collection, Angel Hour (SurVision Books)
