The tug of the soul like a fish at the end of a line
I but who am I as I walk on the edge of the sea
The Irish Sea someone calls it but the sea has no name
A name is like knitting a red hat to put on, well, the sea
The tug of your hand in mine as I walk on the edge of
Tug, tug, there is weight in my hand, and flesh, and bone,
and gristle,
But is that not the
Is that not the weight in my hand of a shout of wind
gusting from Wales
But what is wind the wind has no name nor should it nor
should Wales
As the DART clicks by and the Brent geese rise and two
dogs splash and the wind
Burns into my face and my red windbreaker is only red
over fat and flesh
And my soul tugs at me from the east—but should not
that be west?—
And the wind is burning my eyes to salt and my hand is
Blinded by a tensile ball of light but what is a hand
And to say your name would be as ridiculous as to say
Irish Sea
And the red hat of the day blows off. ‘Almost there,’
my pal cries ahead of me, ‘Bray!’
Copyright © Richard W. Halperin 2010
