Conor O'Callaghan

Four Poems

Lantern Slides

Time was Money 
                               stopped with us upwards 
                                                                             of a month 
                      once every year                                          lording it large
   burning hard                                                                             both ends.
             A daylight hoot                            by night 
the fridge shuddered                   supplements rustled
                                   and there Money always     
          already was all palaver all 
                                                                      sugary waffle.
What memory prospers 
                                            in grain it spends in pixels. 
You still happen                                         on receipts secreted 
      about the place like flutter 
           slips or eggs 
           at Easter.
Cuckoospit, chlorophyll? 
                                               Sure thing… Spring 
spells mostly those gorgeous residual 
                                                                jitters born of assessment 
of a self that used be 
                                      pretty fiscal.   This 
    is of the carpet 
                                                          bag Money never returned for,
a parallelogram of vivid dust through the screen door.
This is 
             of an heirloom bound in cloth Atlantic Calm.
This is of 
                 a note unopened between shakers on the table that 
          (till now) 
                 remained implicit. Don’t even 
      dream about it.


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