Midsummer Morning Poem by Michael Ó Domhnaill

All the soot of midnight's trial

blackens my face in uprooted morning.

Mad fuckers run rampant below the window.

Blood pulses plaintive in me as I

caress her perfect breasts.


The plague rages on as faces glance inscrutable.

The air curls against my spine, an oily

mass undermining our movements.


Stagnant, the slight breeze is gasped in-

In desire or (suffocation) .

Our limbs entwine in early airless morning

like roots slithering in the dense dank soil.