is something like barricading yourself
inside the archives room of the Four Courts
in 1922 and waiting to be shelled,
eating milk-softened day olds, drinking porter,
watching the sun rise through a knifeways
crack in the sandbags and legal texts blocking
the window, clutching at rosary beads, praying,
varnishing your rifle with sweat, knocking
your exploded body on the names and dates
that whisper above Dublin in an empty plume,
settling as soot atop the barricades,
becoming soil, inching out of the tomb
as grass and being evaporated to make rain,
drinking a dirty glass of water. Starting again.