Belfast Tune

        Here's a girl from a dangerous town
                She crops her dark hair short
        so that less of her has to frown
                when someine gets hurt.

        She folds her memories like a parachute.
                Dropped, she collects the peat
        and cooks her veggies at home: they shoot
                here where they eat.

        Ah, there's more sky in these parts than, say,
                ground. Hence her voice's pitch,
        and her stare stains your retina like a gray
                bulb when you switch

        hemispheres, and her knee-length quilt
                skirt's cut to catch the squal,
        I dream of her either loved or killed
                because the town's too small.

translated by the author


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