I was one after your own heart
or so I thought, neither landed
nor gentry, but blew ashore
aboard your limpid pages,
to Inis Mór and there I stranded.
My mind blown away
and all at sea for nevermore.
The curragh also wears a thin partition.
I’ve felt the sea-pulse beneath it
through my hand, life itself,
inside out, outermost to be
inmost in the world.
Get out more, you who say
poetry makes nothing happen.
Be-in-the-world and see:
the poem is earthbound
and elsewhere to the day
as any playboy knows
down the passage of recorded time
through calm and storm
the first to make landfall.