To Be Young and in Love in Middle Ireland

The girl from the satellite town holds berries in the fast stream supermarket queue. She carries her longing like a stream of song, her melody a body over the boundary of what is solid and what flows. The guys in the depression- hit town are tripping in the fruit aisle. Falling for her berry lightness they slip out from their outlines. One guy says she takes the form of a dream, or the dream of a form. On the page of the regional night berries pulse like the notes of a song in the stream. The girl who sheds the skin of her longing escapes into more longing. In a dream on the margins of town one of the guys hears a girl sing, her voice like strings, a basket of ripe berries floating into the night on a stream. The girl, the guy, in derelict bedrooms hear lucent songs undressing, streaming from their outlines through the boundaries of town wrapping around them the scent of fresh berries. And I was the guy and the girl was within the page of the town ever, over, after, never, the song long, long, long, long. The stream is slipped as the ground you stand on. Build houses out of song. The berries are undressing. The stream is long, gone, long. The girl dreams a form of dream, or forms a dream of form: the boundaries of song in the night undressed as a stream in the morning.