Once, in the hiatus of a difficult July,
down Eskra's lorryless roads from sweet fuck all,
we were flinging - such young sophisticates - like a giant frisbee
this plastic lid of an old rat poison bin.
We were flinging it from you to me, me to you, you to me;
me-you, you-me, me-you, you back again.
And you would have sworn that its flat arc was a pendulum,
compassing Tyrone's prosey horizon.
And I would have sworn that our throw and catch had such momentum
that its rhythm might survive, somehow, without me.
'Without Me' from These Days (Jonathan Cape, 2004), (c) Leontia Flynn 2004, used by permission of the author and the publisher.