Scripture woven on a Celtic stone of chance
tells how the beard of Joyce was once a forest
of anatomy carving its spool of time beneath

frosted glass lands where ceramic rabbits lived
on the logic of game caught grass, stored in
cherry baked wood and brick hutches; the shine

of their bobtail sound caught in the surface gloss
of faux mahogony, pannelling a contemporary
sup hole home of Ireland's bardic heartbeat

straining to be heard above De Bussey and generic
DJ hard house mixes competeing in the CD shuffle
of a quick pick surround sound injecting universal

vibes beloved of bar clones the globe over. Their
bunny bookstall rhymes forward reach to an overlap
of sorrow floating in the nets of recollected thought

and surreal slippage from soda pop mountains where
loud checked chocolate shirts are worn without
prejudice and literary fairs offer toss and catch the

coconut with a buck toothed looseness of calcifying
stars falling from the heavenly vacum we all desire
to meet before embarkation to the celestial pen.