like a log and it burns
like a log and it steams
like a shirt and the flat
of an iron. summer smears air
in a thick jam of haze
telling lies to the sky
about water. kills birds
under cars. kills badgers
and dogs. I drive,
choose for music and bite
some horizon. my friends
sit in backseat
and drink – “take a sip
every time you see
roadkill”. we are heading
southwest yet again
in this poem. in this poem
it’s summer: we live
in these moments
and die in the next
moment after.
springing from dublin
like a spark from the hearth
to a carpet
which smoulders and then
is stamped out.