Two Poems
Conor O’Callaghan, 3 March 2005
The Narrator,
during the break in chapter, gets up to stretch beneath a skylight and hears seagulls, small girls running. So many pages since he listened last that he can’t recall how it came to this or which wall the door was on or even now what time of year it is. Are his own pauses, he wants to ask aloud, captivating another, when an absent-minded ‘Where was I?’ echoes...
