I am flotsam here amid the virtuosity of seagulls. I am alone, walking with my lover whose absence is denser than his presence was, a black hole in place of a star. No-one notes his truancy, but I wear it next to my skin like a scapula. I walk the cliffs to Old Head, to watch a solitary cutter fly magenta sails on Courtmacsherry Bay. I toss on a narrow bunk in a house which sprawls like a drunk on a bench, everything hanging open.
Towels drape from windows like slack tongues.
Paddy McIntee, the owner of a shaggy body and b7ull neck, closes bloodshot eyes on hearth and guests, snores through the blackness and cries out in his sleep. Next day I entertain my ego at the brilliant edge of Kinsale Bay, below a star fortress brooding where pincers of land all but touch like a ballerina's fingers in a curved ache of arms. We toast each other in cold champagne. Watery sunshine fizzes on our skin. Clear water laps our table, washed this way by a stately departure of sailors alone by choice.