SONGOING

for Macgregor


the sun. the sun. the sun.
the sun the sun the sun.

I wake in the crush / of days, the way

everything holds

together merely by the stewardship

of tiny, voiceless orbits. Or

perhaps there is too much voice?

the sun. the sun. the sun.
the sun the sun the sun.
thesunthesunthesun.

An unsung land is a dead land

Can I call it a rain / of breathing arrows?
Does the air fear / space? Here is a representation

of you—any / you.

The sun folds into it like a melody / in the ear.

Who will sing the sun? My friends will sing the sun.
Who will sing the sun? My friends will sing the sun.

Ireland Darksomes

No death is for only
one. Faces
are either empty or grown full
with ferries. These faces
are nothing
if not swimming
with death.

after Jack B. Yeats


Swans, snakes, whatever.
It is spring and the world wants
to divide, to flay
into strips. The first word
is always wrung from a stone, a tooth
a tongue, whatever. It
is always wrong. No. Yes.

Cork


Skellig. A foliage
of eels. Copying centuries
in a beehive’s embrace. A toehold
of stone. It was the only
island on the island on the island
devoid of crows. We were famous for loving
nothing so much as nothing.

Skellig Michael


There is no sky
that is not also
a sky above horrors.
A mute grey mare
leaps the cliff thick
with blood. Her rider is and is
not at peace.

after Peig Sayers, Blasket storyteller


Carpaccio of wood
pigeon, beetroot and rocket.
A long-armed star scuttles
in from the wall, Bowie
familiarly ecstatic. A limp light
patiently droops into pub
after pub. Beamish, Powers.

The Ivory Tower, Cork


I touched you coming
out the small stone
enclosure. We paid the farmer
a single coin for to
traipse up and down those
precarious steps. What is delicate that
lasts longer than god?

Staig Fort, Ring of Kerry


Birds exploiting
the wounds of Cúchulain
for sport. Crows looming in
dark knots above
the Hill of Tara. The gannets’
great white island and a brazen murder
of crows on the Rock of Cashel.