What door to my self ?
The tricky, slippery threshold
Is disappearing.
How many ruins
Make up a self’s dream-landscape ?
The cat has fever.
Our thermometer
Splinters in this roiling heat.
Just keep the head cool.
Fierce warmth in the sun
The Alps groaning and boiling.
May we stop marching ?
Subject: Fwd: Fróinsias an Fhéin
tairseach an Fhéin
is ea an uile ní –
fothracha
The Poet slips in
Through his own portal .No self.
No thing. No language.
Immense sliding light
Beams now on Ungaretti
On his ruined self
Unwrap my onion
All my healthy, roasting selves
I am my portal
( Fróinsias O Corcorain As Pratoleva. Samhradh 2012 )