It\'s that breathless, bruiseless sky,
pinned up like a fine starched sheet,
that descends, as if untied -
now enfettered by each peak;
It\'s that sliver of a lough
soaked in fingers sleek of sun,
spattered light like bleach-stained rock,
dragged along and quenched and spun
And that dizzy, drastic height,
tearing through the purpling sky,
like a mirror slices light,
like a finger through an eye.
The awareness comes like fog,
thick and heavy, over all:
that we\'re suddenly far too small.