Nobody can be Atlas

I keep thinking about UA Fanthorpe
and a suspect edifice held up
in the air
and the beach sky, Wexford. Him
flying a kite, me holding
the babies sand whipping
us and my fingers
tipping the sky, holding
up the blue sheet of it.



Listen to the evening come down. Boot clicks, gravel-
rumble under the thudthud of a leather ball. Gladioli
curls, loll on indigo fur, lamps are lit. Kids called home,
names like Evan distill the darkening air. Eavan on your
mind; this satellite village is safe, the house a capsule. Sedate,
a womb of one’s own. Float; you’re a paper cutout, earth, water
and sky. A part of this tableaux, be still. You’re home.