Once, in the hiatus of a difficult July,
down Eskra’s lorryless roads from sweet fuck all,
we were flinging – such young sophisticates – like a giant
this plastic lid of an old rat-poison bin.
We were flinging it from you to me, me to you, you to
me-you, you-me, me-you, you back again.
And you would have sworn that its flat arc was a
compassing Tyrone’s prosy horizon.
And I would have sworn that our throw and catch had
that its rhythm might survive, somehow, without me.