Seems unreal somehow
becomes this
a teller telling it
at a distance
with lights dimmed
trimmed back
to a haze of smoke
of conversation
in overheated rooms
wood paneling
a bit of song
so good
I want to hear it
just beyond
the unsettling stir
of it
why even if I were
knee deep
in shamrock
green as a summer field
by some whitewashed cottage
in the west under thatch
a picture you’ve seen
peat smoke wisping
as a pony cart full
of red-haired children
goes by
why I’d still hear
this voice over
teasing
understating
overstating a bit of action
a place
making itself up
out of this play of words
I want to hear.