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.

The Untimely Death of a Narrativist