—for Gary Hogan (1964-1992)
A matter of genes this knack
of pulling oneself into a tiny corner
like a sick hound.
'He's no trouble to anyone, '
the finest compliment from an Irish nana.
Regression to famine days
as pale children faded in peat-smoked huts
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem