the spot
Well, well after the war,
in the summer midpoint air
between Shankhill and Falls,
you talking me through Dante`s hell
and the doomed ones he met there,
I wading the spirit streams
remembering the crazies in bars
along the road where limbs of flesh
were blown out of hearts` control,
circling you and glancing now and then
to that focal spot on your skirt
between waist and knees
and wondering about what had likely
happened there which was guiding me beyond
its unseeable centre
to the metal masts rigid on hillsides,
the slapping and moaning of wind in the rigging
of yachts in the harbour, and cold satellites
far up winking silently on clear nights