Goats laugh to each other,
sharing secrets about me.
The wind breathes the bock tune,
of a far away bard.
Still I trek, up and up and up,
to see that great canopy from the top.

Eoghan watched the shadows of their silhouettes, morphing along the rustic wood panels, and took note of the faux brown leather flaking off above the chair’s claw-footed legs. The seat cushion, flat and uninviting. He paused, struggling to remember how it had looked when he first started visiting.

In a shadow between two buildings,
a woman clenches rosary beads.
The hem of her dress skims a murky puddle.

It is violent,
swelling in muddled moonlight.
My tangled hair becomes brittle
by the whipping salt air.