13 May 2006

Eamonn Doran's

dance for a new year--across the
carpet smooth-stroked by the
whitecoated cleaners--their
calm faces so contrast
these two in the mad dance
wild, hand to hand, as a
new year barrels in

brushing against a table
shrouded in linen, gleaming
cutlery silver-bright knife slashes,
empty glasses bellshapes billow
above their slim stems, brittle chime as they break

mirror catches sight of the greenglass,
brokenedged hungry teeth aching for
a taste of blood, marvelous tool,
so handy to hold, crack-smashed
against the brass lip of the bar

see them dance--see their eyes
flash bright in anger

(as an aside
see the eyes in the photos on
the wall, those framed by
dull polished brass, smooth dark woods,
surrounded by sepia tone,
all the old men, the grey men, so sure
in their years, their words mouthed
over until no more than meaningless prayers
ave, ave, ave, save us from ourselves--
see too, the semi-legendary of sport, the
colors placed next-to-next, codes to
read to understand old rivalries,
sport as war subdued: it blares
from the box, video fresh,
weekly new)

hand to hand now
cheek to cheek now
as glass grinds now
by the eye now

butcher hand twists and carves,
feral, foul handiwork this,
his heart still bleeds black
in exile--no stitches can
save--or staunch--that fetid mass
fleshy fat, yet empty

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