The opening line of this volume is writing reams of poetry in her head, on a Sunday morning lying in his bed; which sounds very much like the most golden of hours for any poet; the closing line of the collection is A friend suggested therapy (which I totally rejected). There is a narrative between these lines, a travel journal, but the time over which this Joycean journey tale place is unknown. It could be a lifetime, or a week or that hour. Kiernan talks of his poetry as navigating a route to the bare self. His opening poem focuses very directly upon a physical nudity that is merely an illusion of true nakedness. Even in this most personal of spaces there is a lack of intimacy, a lack of intimacy that is the source of anguish for the female voice in this poem. El primer verso de este poemario reza: escribe resmas de poesía en su cabeza, un domingo por la mañana acostada en su cama; que suena como la ma s dorada de las horas para cualquier poeta; el verso que cierra es: Un amigo me sugirió terapia (lo cual rechacé totalmente). Hay una historia contada entre lí neas, un diario de viaje, pero se desconoce el tiempo en el que transcurre este viaje joyceano. Podrí a ser toda una vida, o una semana o esa hora.
