I’m not cured yet
last night I ripped
up by bird ways
I could not open Rilke
it was a tattered book
its pages
argued on the shelf
that untranslatable incline
dappled with shadows of gods
and equations
like walking once
down Ben Bulben in dusk
out of the tearing mist
into visible Yeats country
into the bird song static
and ripple
on over Sligo Bay