I love it when we walk home from
the nightclub earlier than everybody else.

And Dublin Road is
a drunk man’s holler. And the grand church is

an untrained orchestra. But we are quiet.
Just between us, I love it when we walk home

and it is this way. My legs were
seizing up like old car brakes in there. My ears are

filled-up glasses of salt water. Our
vast pavement, lying still outside

the university has been ripped open by feet;
you can hear the cement stones running for

their lives when you listen close —
but I was carried away from noise.

You can see how my hands don’t quite
understand how to listen to it. Speak
softly to me — I will dance.