The laughing club guys were swiveling their necks like table fans . They would go into paroxysms of laughter soon. But they ran short of jokes for laughing.
I think about Seamus Heany and his mother on collaborative potato peeling . The potato peels they did together fell off like little drops of flame from a solder. They were his moments with her.
(“When all the others were away at the Mass” : Sonnet by Seamus Heany”)
The peels made soft plops on their silence . On her death bed the priests prayers went hammer and tongs. They were not his monuments .He remembered her head bent towards his, her breath in his, their fluent dipping never closer the whole rest of their lives.
I take leave of a big bright silver sun behind cool clouds. Somehow he is not gold this morning .