Life has changed into a matter
of keeping an eye on yourself.
What stage are we at?
Should you be holding on
at all costs, to your sincerity?
When you close your eyes and catch up
with a sort of accelerated film,
moving you in the direction of a bad end,
is that what’s heading your way
or something remembered,
or the memory of something
you only thought?
Maybe you’d prefer to be someone else,
someone who doesn’t exist,
such as Colonel Rolleston,
collecting his Irish Times at the pier.
Preparing for another trip
to the refuse centre,
it’s as if you are standing behind
your own shoulder,
witnessing the levers of your arms
work to fill black plastic bags
with books and clothes.