Alchemisland

Every child dreams upon his first denial

Of uprooting through guile the arrogant titans

Who by gifted title tithe a life

I write I write

I whip the tide

I forbid its returning, as did it every other time.

For every hundred blunted hours I’ve spent writing

Blunting biros upon a chiaroscuro Bible

Bound with spirals

Like graven graves in ancient Ireland; in their recognisable vanity

Finding ourselves, despite Time’s dissociation.