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This poem is taken from PN Review 137, Volume 27 Number 3, January - February 2001.

Four Poems Michael O'Neill


Dawn

Bird-song at dawn;
dawn, when the migraine ebbs away,

when through the dense mists Mars burns red,
when, if a figure stood on the High Bridge,

and a camera trained on him performed
a 360 degrees shot, he and the river

would seem to tilt and spin towards the sky;
dawn, when my son comes down, unpicks the alarm's

green, wakeful code, and plugs in Goldeneye,
while, still asleep, I dream of you,

my buried friend, of how, one dawn, we hurried
through twisting streets because you wished

to take communion in the gaunt Cathedral.
In my dream, only I emerge,

as one who returns to his lost road.


Guilt

At the grille, I grassed on myself,
...


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