Nick Laird's To a Fault

is a risky move for Faber, but at least its good to see them publishing someone young, especially after Dorothy Molloy dying and all. Here's one from the book - some how I can't decide whether the last image is really something or goes too far; maybe its both

Poetry

It's a bit like looking through the big window
on the top deck of the number 47.

I'm watching you, and her, and all of them,
but through my own reflection.

Or opening my eyes when everyone's praying.
The wave machine of my father's breathing,

my mother's limestone-fingered steeple,
my sister's tiny fidgets, and me, moon-eyed, unforgetting.

And then the oak doors flapping slowly open to let us out,
like some great injured bird trying to take flight.