Later Works: The Untimely Death of a Narrativist
Without love’s engine I will but fail
where no celtic lords live life nor laugh
driving patience beyond this fired pale
In no self-contained green monograph.
All my photographs are writing with light
Lighten me up Lugh at my dark misfortune
soiled spuds of life out of this blight
health is a man’s wealth, good fortune
and the friend powers my soul
gone by belly pain and dread
with innards out can I become whole
what’s inside love is never said
at our end, mechanisms of rust
cover our shine with our own stardust.