Thomas McCarthy Biography

Here on the writing desk of the earth
The sun goes down quickly at ink level.
Soon the stony outcrop will be a blob
Of light blue and the sky will be pale
...

The land is not yet half settled
After our years of pandemonium:
This time it is almost too late
To sing with full heart a parting hymn,
...

Poetry is the cuckoo that sits upon expectant life
While God is absent. Something vague and distant
From a far field, the cuckoo pleases all of us
Without eggs to incubate. But if you want the grief
...

My hatred of bicycles has no end to it.
I should see someone on four wheels about this.

A cyclist would never smoke expensive cigars,
The ones rolled secretly by a Cuban exile in LA,
...

Our kitten turns to deliver its encomium,
Purring as if a lump of tabby quartz
Propelled it so. It shares this petrichor
With the last bumblebees seeking glamour.
...