on  te day the windaws blews in with the sudden whiteness of a sunrise

an the red dust settled in among the tomotaoes, i was in te kitchen

packing up me things in a duffel bag

 

no news is not always good news id said to myself,

 pickin myself up off the floor,

teres not better time than the apocalypse for a little whiskey

 

a whole morning bent pickin  bits of glass out of my arms with a tweezer

by noon an unatural darkness

 

if yu'd spent any time in an irish catholic school yl have all the wherewithal to deal with such a disaster, havin had youur head sloshed over with doom, horned beasts and etcetera

 

you hav naught to worry about for there stamped on your hand is your passport to heaven, the imprint of a ruler, i said

it is the bar code of the irish catholic

you measured up my boy or else you'd be dead already,

 

and there was no better time for a little reel across the floor to celebrate my good fortune

 

when i stepped over my front door i crossed myself

 

ter was smoke an dust, the strong sharp stink of broiled lamb.. the street was littered with slate from the rooftops, glass.. my bike had taken wing from the front gate and had fled to the high ground, the wheels still spinning  up in the branches of the old ash

 

ii

 

jesus chroist, that first day on the street was murder. Still puffin from the climb up the tree, i pedalled that beauty of a bike down to St Marys to see old father cahill.