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 poes a en su cabeza, un domingo por la ma ana 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 sugiri terapia (lo cual rechac totalmente). Hay una historia contada entre l neas, un diario de viaje, pero se desconoce el tiempo en el que transcurre este viaje joyceano. Podr a ser toda una vida, o una semana o esa hora.
