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