There is a kitten amongst the cast off clothes and life is beautiful.
A tiny Devil's advocate
wombed in perfect little flames like thumb prints and a streak of wax on a wine bottle.
Full of indelible Catholic images of greed and abstinence.
Is mine a defiant head in the gale or a streak of piss in the wind
looking on in puzzlement at the fringes of the crowd; full of bathos and shitty register?
Canute spies a darkness in his love's grace
so sits drinking whisky to quench fires.
As do Joyce's Irishless Irish
with weeping in their welcomes, full as rainbarrows.
Even the evil ones tell the truth.
Their fingerprints on split lip sellotape.
The pleasure and comfort of a full field.
And they fired a satellite into space so we could watch TV and find our way home.