No translation
I want to live where rain strikes hard,
but doesn’t sting my face if I talk back.
Where clouds have holes for climbing
through to escape from everything
once good that you have broken.
I have a secret place between
my ear and neck, where it is soft
and knows a language you cannot translate.
It’s been touched many times before
but on the way to something else.
I wonder sometimes
if my skin will forget
your carelessness.
When you come close,
to watch the tears
spill from my eyes,
run down crow’s feet,
into my ears; your words
wash far from comprehension
and I know it’s best to say nothing.
Like lonely men perched along
the bar, hands wrapped
around a beer grown
warm; like sitting
with a song that keeps
me in the car long
after the engine
has stopped
running.
Chimera Lay can occasionally be found panning for answers in the mountains of the Beara peninsula.
Burning Bush Revival 