i.m. Seamus Heaney
Your
longed-for music, through cement, through wood,
through the guttural autumn taxis,
unclouding
swift and pale down avenues, with the stark
outbreak of troops in the epic muslin, black
as dawn’s cinders, towards the true north
of your irises’ extinction, afire, to-torn flashes
of dark at wakes, where crude bounces
beyond any proof
God outpaces
the supposition of your death. All remains like
an erring spring, in another place,