For an Irish friend living in Canada,
on the nominees for an Oscar
To call, distichs.
You call me Ireland;
I’m calling you home.
No need I have of you,
by far an extra one.
But you took from me
items of my essence:
my rhythm in substance;
my music, my balance.
So deprived, I’m land
striped off of mortal ire.
Keep your fire, keep,
yet do return my love:
above a canned land,
be I damned ever first.
You know your curse’s
my hospitable laughter.
