Leaving behind odd boots, smoothed shards of glass,Īn unwanted dog drowned in a black bin bag, When the sea retreats, folds in upon itself, Then loosed from this, the bodies current stilled Shucked out into the world when water's highĪgainst quayside, barge, and quarterdeck, In which we're born and die on the tide's turn, Or so the old story goes, the fishwife's tale Symbol for all that is given and snatched away, The give and take of waves, their push and drag, Out of which swarms of flies rise, disturbed, The bone-dry bladderwrack and sea lettuce To stir beach stones and periwinkle shells, Swell pummels rock, darkens sand, creeps upshore Prone, one eye opened that I wish I could close. First the shudder, then the topplingĪs the surge ripples through each nerve and vein,Īnd she drops in silence and a fit of steam to lie there I want to explain how, when the elephant falls, she falls To those who wield the tools that worked his exitįrom this world. In the Sistine Chapel who holds up a tanner’s knifeĪnd his own skin, another saint made patron I’d like to tell him how,Īfter those four boys have done their dirty workĪnd turned into something older than they were before,īartholomew becomes that figure above the altar To whisper this story into the ear of the keeperīefore the film goes any further, before they reach To discourage it from running after cars. His father once tied a frying pan between the legs of their mongrel His clothes reeked of stale milk and hay, and how The truth is, I can’t remember his name, only the way While the rest of us raise our hands with what we thinkĪre the right answers and hold our breaths trying not to laugh. He makes a fist and hammers itĪgainst his skull to bring forth robin redbreast, stonechat, crow, Into a box to store your books? This time he’s reeling off With the defunct inkwells the dry hinges that opened Sat in the front row of those battered desks Thinking again about that boy who, in Scoil Muire, That barely make it beyond the ground sand of the lensĪnd onto this reel that unravels as I find myself With their hats and mustaches, their say-nothing expressions Or these others like extras from one of the first westerns Who are not quite men yet despite their pristine uniforms, What do they thinkĪs they sulk after the condemned, this trinity, Where they will dispose of this son of Tolomai, Towards the blue edge of the Caspian Sea, Who follow, unable to muster a single wordĪs they march down the main street of their village One guard gripping the prisoner’s left arm and the three others, So that bees might rise up out of its pooled blood.Īnd this too must be the way they took BartholomewĪfter he made the King’s brother deny his gods. Pulled by the horns towards the place of sacrifice Of the classroom because he couldn’t spell vengeanceĪfter three turns. That year in school, led by the ear to the corner Think of the boy, who sat in front of you The spot where they will set two of her feet In sepia and near-silhouette, step through a vacant lot,įollow the lead of the burly handler, who carriesĪ sleek whip, a coil of rope, as he leads his charge towards The image forever ticking over as three men, Is a clock for seeing, as Barthes tells us it ought to be, Coney Island, 1903,Īnd the handheld camera that gets all of this down Muddy and whorled, this elephant they tried once to hangīecause she killed three men and survived They follow these six tons, this hunk of flesh, Like mourners, or men setting out early for a duel,
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