We browse in each dome’s live absence
and picnic above the graveyard
that’s no bigger than a currach
with a crucifix for helmsman
navigating his crew to the island of the dead.
We’re eyed by the staunch, monkish puffins.
Our tongues loosen, but, in keeping
with the somberness of this sun-haloed place,
we chat about the world with an earnestness
that would embarrass us on the mainland.
To each full blood—so long as you have an open hand, we shall fill it with
a broken ploughshare. One hundred and sixty acres allotted.
Chorus rumbles constant throughout night
storied roots curl around obsidian
arrowhead dissolved into shaft groove
you unbuckle the stems from your leg
slathered on, forcing me out
in a cloud of confidence
that I was the Calvin Klein
Man, not the Old Spice
deeply, saying she loves
the scent of burned heating
oil on men, that it reminds
her of when she and my brother
Alan dreams of a big deal,
Of opening a classy poolhall.
Has a four million dollar deal
Which will probably fall through,
Has a big land deal with the Post Office
But it will take 20 years to deliver
Because they are so slow.
“just fell off, didn’t get hurt,” what does he mean?
this story just drops off, I want to know a little more, a lot more
I mean, how fast was the bike going when she fell off
did she ruin the belt, scrape her nose
did they drink a lot of beer afterwards?