A life of running, unathletically, unwittingly, like gazelles with a spark in the grass.
It started early, this flying.
From myself
from silence from things ending
Under cold skies now,
my Irish eyes open wide at last
I am running toward.

When I catch my death,
when at last I run her down
in the extremity of all I have been
I want it to be as a violinist;
shining in the last dark night,
I want to be the beloved with endless arms under the coal light sky, saying,
“at last, sweet darkness, at last, emptiness, we are together.”
in the long end of firmity.