paper is missing,
the feeling of ink,
transporting our essences.
the booklet you tore,
those several sheets,
lies low on the shelf.
we were to write
each share halving our
news, sounding bright
but I can’t scratch,
sketch, nor focus,
my center circumferenced.
the postman calls,
but bills, no letters,
communication freeze.
I haven’t troubled,
the book for a stamp,
Since you’ve lain fallen overseas.
© Sam McKeon 2015
Published by Sam McKeon
Sam McKeon is a recluse, living on the remote rugged west coast of Ireland. Currently, Sam’s poetry tends to focus on his inner universe and the moments he spends with the very few people he is in contact with, especially his muse Emily, who has inspired almost fifty poems, tracing the development of their relationship.
The astonishing drama and beauty of the wild Irish landscape is also absorbed into his writing. This can lead to some weird things, but mostly it leads to deeply passionate works stitched together with tender reflection.
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