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Book Of Sleep (1999)


Come, my love
Pursued by Muses
You do net believe in
Come, my love
A kiss. I am their small daughter
They with to taste
Your open mouth
In mine, my love
Come, I am reclining. wretched
Wounded by their crimson morning
Lost in their golden hills
They pipe inept concerts
In imperturbable solitudes
Come, the morning is a wound
Dreaming in confusion
For love of you who disbelieves
We have been awake for hours
Pining. My love, come
My lips are the scarlet dawn
Fury until they meet yours
In my mouth are secrets
The whole of County Cork
The ruins of Persepolis
The very next poem you will write
No.  I will not tell them.
They will be only my lips, love
Not the hills of Antrim.
Not the poets of Lesbos
Only my lips. Yes
When their mornings star
Rises, I promise you
Will come
After the kiss.
The trembling drunken green

--Philomene Long


What was that sound?
John Thomas, thirty miles away
Writing a poem

--Philomene Long

The Book of Sleep Cover

(C) Copyright Philomene Long Estate 2008-2011, All Rights Reserved. Photographs by Pegarty Long.

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