[from Medbh McGuckian's The Book of the Angel, 2004]
Different from every neighbour,
the mountain tries to enter the house
like the element in which the world swims.
Should we call this otherwise a creature,
showing its wear, its sojourn in the deep
yellow shadows the woman presses to her breast?
It is cored out, its shell of shadow,
which we have dared to call glory,
and brightly lit shoulder, outside of sleep,
a sky-blue gospel. The house turns
to control the seasons, part of the house
detains the falling evidence of light
and its daydreams; where my deepest
thought, which carries all thought,
falls through like a devotion.
Already the ignition of the skin
that he troubles and holds, touching
but not touching, is a desire that withdraws
from its satisfaction, from electricity's
unnerving ways . . . not absolutely unseen
but missed by sight, whose imperfect,
perfectible, high-speed, machine-eye
could not explain the feast he desired
of the absolute repose of the earth.
The Book of the Angel