Matins: A Visual Poem

Again the Sun my brother stands at the East window by his bed reading a stack of newspapers I’m at the kitchen table stringing words together like beads Letting them roll and softly clink in my hands on my lips Far away my mother cuts clippings to mail; Our weekly prayer book Dutiful mother, she has given two children to the Church of words Irish monks sat in the Sun of a morning; On the ground; in the doorways of their stone Hut’s while they transcribed the word illuminated each page the disa left behind for us to read Like bread taken into the body burned into light and heat The kind of thing we use rays of light to indicate eating a shiny the patina on the vessel often used All those hands making books for us to eat Let us receive these gifts let words course through us let us leave behind only ashes Inky prints on the doors on the light switches signs that say I was here I was reading

1 thought on “Matins: A Visual Poem

  1. Disrespectful to the Irish. Iā€™m not even Irish but this is a disgrace. The moon hurts my heart hurts the Irish weeps. Better luck next time and the editing SUCKS. AWFUL. PLS STOp.

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