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by aoife-marie buckley

New Year’s morning,

I walk out early to last night’s prow.

We all held hands and gave our

Auld Lang Syne here. It’s still fresh on my tongue,

My hands,

The sun graciously not loosed it.

I think I’ll find scorch marks in the clearing

Left by the screaming fizz

That burst forth

From my heart,

Utterly uncontainable when lit.

But I don’t,

There are no body-shapes left in the tufts of grass,

No scattering of spent firework about the cliff.

Because they burn

Like I have,


In their entirety,

A small arc into a wall of sparkled flight –

Then quiet –


Aoife-Marie Buckley is an architectural historian who really has no business writing poetry about much outside buildings and art.


Image by Bree Anne
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