I tried to smile while she plucked /
the old bandage from the red line of hurt /
where the scalpel did its abrasive work /
and the yellowing bruise / ...
I met Emily Dickinson down on Grafton Street. /
On a Saturday afternoon, there was hardly room /
to sneeze. When I first saw her, I was fascinated /
by her hair, tied back in a bun. I just stood / ...
She put her small nose, pierced with a pearl, /
To the open gramophone of the flowers, /
One then the other, breathing both in, /
Before getting up and walking casually / ...
It is the commerce of farmers with hands in their pockets. /
It is used by old wives /
and the things they’ve known not having. /
The stains in his pants are scattered language, / ...