A Graceful Exit
I wished to leave Celtic,
vanish into night, fog,
rain on Burren.
There is nothing that tethers
to the party tune,
a monotone already heard
by hundred-thousand aloft,
a films viewed anxious,
half-understood, forgotten by morning.
You tap me on the shoulder,
angered at the shoe leather
print on carpet:
Too soon for it all,
to finish the a moon cycle,
too late for hearts to heal.
