Gearóid Mac Lochlainn

The Artists

We were translations,

shattered moons shimmering

on waves of dark applause.

We were breath, syntax, pause,

lines unpegged,

the language of slow flowers

fluttering between the lion’s mouth

and the trapeze.

We were sinew

stretched and splayed

deep into endless dusk.

Lolo and May,

Yin and Yang.

We conspired with

a gray weave of canvas,

unraveled the chiaroscuro

of whisper and the aisles.

Blink and it’s gone.

Shadow-land and shutter-snap.

All that’s left is a hint of something,

like the feel of saw dust,

a flurry of rope,

stalk-thin silhouettes

of fading towns

and villages.