At 6.30 a.m., I go up on the roof to watch the moon heal, bandaged in cloud, observing that wound
of night become a scar,
then disappear; as she moves in a flimsy gauze - all flesh is sky - the place of healing shows and hides, leaving me higher than the sculpture of crane, its horizontal line; across the Bay Bridge
the 'Hail Mary's' of passing
ears thread the hem of morning: aircraft blink, for here
day is dissolving in a watercolourist's dream of unaccountable lights and accidents,
a woman is raising her head.
Courtesy of Poetry Ireland Review Issue 27 - can anyone tell us who wrote this? Email firstname.lastname@example.org please...