Colm Breathnach Poems

at your temple a revolver mouth
in the middle of the night

and you know you are to be shot
into the boundless eternity
...

I

She won't speak to me anymore, this place
my tongue is received with poor grace.
...

(and seven)
the poet builds

a Boat,
the reader
...

(to Micheál agus Michelle)

If you could see her after drinking wine,
Wine from Chile of the berry-red kind
...