Arrival

And then went down to the car,
November, as if under water,
carrying on from where we had been carried to,
swirling slowly with pacific plastic fragments,
no bellying canvas,
no shadows on the seas.
I’d bought a car specially to move to Lucan;
I learned there is a blind spot

which makes overtaking dangerous.
A cobweb spreads across my brain
and sucks back suddenly.
Maybe it feels something like this—
your last moment.
But for now, the moments keep coming—
carried back and forth along the N4,
up and down the stairs.

I also learned about new houses;
there is a thing called a “Fischer plug”
for securing shelves to plasterboard—
you drill a hole and slip it through,
then screwing makes its limbs appear
and spread and latch,
like a cobweb or a fungus,
and tighten against the inner surface.

Although we never see inside
and we can never know for sure.
Fine-woven cobwebs
stretched over wretched men there.
And the post starts to come,
and I walk daily,
and we wait.