chasing word-mice Through cluttered cellars

Working all day to draw one tongue into another, chasing word-mice
Through cluttered cellars, I'm trying to hit a right note, bring over

What the man said to make one or other of his lovers shine
Like the necklace he saw splashing into a reed-pond--its gleam

Of beads at speed like the flare of a bird's fire-fangled dovetail
Taking off. Or it's the glint of insect on apple catching his eye

In a greenhouse steamy with the scent of sex and lemons, his blood
Beating its drum to kingdom come. So I keep at it--like a man

Entering an empty house, who tries to fill the place with her
Dusky smell, warm breath at his neck, her Where are the words?

[Eamon Grennan, from The Quick of It: Poems]

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