Belfast Tune

Here's a girl from a dangerous town
She crops her dark hair short
so that less of her has to frown
when someine gets hurt.


She folds her memories like a parachute.

Dropped she collects the peat
and cooks her veggies at home: they shoot
here where they eat.


Ah there's more sky in these parts than say 
ground.
 Hence her voice's pitch 
and her stare stains your retina like a gray
bulb when you switch

hemispheres and her knee-length quilt
skirt's cut to catch the squal 
I dream of her either loved or killed
because the town's too small.

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