Manuscript Contents

All people should speak to each other in passing,
remembering to mention
the landowners rubble left
from the uprising in Ballinrobe, 1896;
iron gates at the entrance, rust
guarding only water filled Irish cellars,
and a roof that's gone back to the sod.

The clay of a vacant lot in Santiago, Chile
owned by a crabby old man
who wouldn't sell his land because of anger,
while the city grew up around him.

Certain birds that live in the marshes of the
Camargue, France.

They might discuss how difficult the Winter
was of 73',
In Vladivlostok, Praha, or Paris.

How rabbits still leap in the winter stillness
when moonlight burns the snowfall blue,
and late night trees mist
under the street lamps of ancient parks.

The great mansion in Guadalajara
that stood empty for ten years,
when the family of Sosa left carrying
their tears and laundry in expensive valise',
because papa had been robbed of his honor
In the underground of Distrito Federal, while on
a gambling vacation with his mistress, Katerina.

The pristine beauty of an English Spring,
redolent with hillsides of daffodils,
that eventually disappeared into a tax system
left over from a taxation of windows.

Those who loved, those who didn't,
all these things could be discussed in passing
the eyes of strangers, still protected
by the rapidity of their feet
striking like flint
on the stones of their journey's,
from eyes to eyes,
from earth to earth,
each separate in exploration.

© Michelle Marie Boleyn