Hidden among the pounding of animal hides, All tamped into maps, their shapes Explicit replicate butterfly wings, lie the motives of Lír. The king who paid improper attention to his children. From that first fascination And it’s lascivious gaze, Came the gorged desire for substance, Among the skins, Nets, shadows and milk bottles Pried from the stomachs of metal fish, Steam, smoke and things that won’t stay, Speared, dangled, measured, divined. All dreamed through wallpaper, Or dowsed from something they drowned in long ago. Snowed in on either side, The swans, Lír’s beloved children, Begin their 800 year journey. From lake to sea A thousand more. – JM
