A carrier bag, caught in a sycamore
tree, heaved and pulled, strained itself skinny, thrashed to escape. Its mouth,
a terrorized rip, was lightening in the branches.
A carrier bag gulped itself grotesque
in the squall on the Lower Kimmage Road. In convulsion, its face inflated to featurelessness.
A carrier bag flew by. I saw nothing
but hands wringing.
The baby in the tree
is
screaming.
High
above the pathway
near
the black tips
of
the sycamore branches
he
is gaping,
white
membraned luminous.
How
did he get there?
He
blew there in the wind;
it
took him
like
a flag from his cot
till
he was stretched
across
the boughs
like
the wings of a bat.
And
who sees him?
I
do;
all
his hopeless writhing,
too
high for the passerby.
And
his screams:
too
high,
too
high for the passerby.
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