weald
i don’t think i’d very much like to go to ireland.
the natives talk of it like it’s some kind of
utopia. if i believed the pictures, i’d assume
sheep outnumber humans three to one, that it’s all
rolling hills and still green calm. i don’t like calm.
the men are all jolly and women are warm, all the gold
of celtic thunder braided into their hair and grins
of their forefathers on display in their eyes. i met a girl
like that once, and all she talked about was yeats.
to this day, i’m convinced she was saying it wrong.
she had a hearty laugh and a mellow look about her.
i don’t like calm. it’s all breathtaking views
and enriching culture. i had a dream last night
that when i walked outside in the morning, this city
collapsed around me and dragged me right down into it
like a steel girdered hug. the best part of that was,
maybe, one day, it’ll happen. it won’t love you
like nobody else will.
