Thirst and Vigil

Oisin Breen

Thirst




Sa n'áit n'ard na gaoithe
In the place of the high winds.
Here is the caught, the girdled, and exalted.
Here red runs the cup,
A heavy breathlessness turned fresh,
A tune fashioned from rasps of air.

And now a soft sullen laughter drops
from level to level,
fast, like wet fabric to erosion whittled rock:
from you to I, and back again,
hot, the movement of lips
and elation in the brushing of muscles and gluttonous skin,
where we speak in tongues,
this is all I have ever done-
In perpetuity,
Two hundred years ago today.


Vigil



This is a prayer to the symbol,
The shaper of shapes,
That single thought,
One consideration above the final:



REQUIESCAT:


In the name of the cinder,
the ash,
and the strangulation of the air
as it falls;

sweetly,
in patterns,
to a halt,
in pebble hordes,
near those left-behind marks:


A spoor,
demonstrably signalling,
where we may not yet have been.

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