Article voiceover
The scene, to be Irish and young, Might not seem to some The honest leftover part Of their own mind's memories' failure to start, Like the lately bought lawnmower In my own suburban garage, that needs oil And gas to spin apart What now too overgrown Into ended vicious threads That dead will help the next week's Grasses, weeds, flowers, trees ... But I'm sick at home (I have the virus) And I can't kid myself. Marianne why oh why Was the household horror here to stay? There must be something stuck in your eye. When will Connell be wise? When will snow sheeting fall? When will the sky lie down naked before all? How is it that the world Won't stop sitting still When all is still incessant moving? How is it that houses Are like "sleeping cats", As Rooney writes it, And yet I'm still frightened? At least this TV show is moving, The way they put the picture together -- That there's more than one color And hair and faces still look good. At least there's something there to long for, Something to see, something like What will be me on my way back To the library bin, to put the book in And not read it anymore, maybe then to go eat Under normal dining room light, And, no longer sick, go to bed. Hiding far down in returns, the book is at rest, And no heart is shook at the sound of its closing. So I lie back until it's time, and then I sleep.