Nick Drake doubled up the dose
in his parents’ home never having fucked once
in his 27 summers. Biographers know—
greasy combs exposing the facts like lice.
Sad thought, stalk torn up like the fruit tree, roots
to a sky flaked pink, summer flush with chirping
mattresses, lovers blowing sugar in each other’s ears
I see him a gentleman of strawberries & water
no ice

It is not enough to persist

On our drive to Clare I mistake Corofin for Coffin
your hand is warm on the gearstick
Imagine pulling open your serge
curtains tomorrow       fog
has made a slurred lens of the window
you’d trusted for blackberries & tractors.
Imagine your dead friends gathered in it, hands
around each other’s hips for a big group shot
the photographer’s thumb covers in the flash