Checkpoint

Checkpoint

Checkpoint

Out of the deep galaxies
of detail and the blind ways
that we go and the light
or dark that shines on us

there is this measure of
the nitty-gritty impact
that I’ve made so far
upon the earth:

an unreckonable fraction
of a millimetre in
wear-down of polished
kerbstone, the first

on the bridge,
southwestern side,
after I step at half-past
midnight out of

Maggie Dunne’s
in Carrick Beg
to cross again
(no record of how many 

times in all, of which
no two the same
in one direction
or the other),

cross again that old bridge
built before Columbus,
on my way to sleep
in Carrick Mór

where the weir plays
when the tide’s away
and sometimes
between quays

I’m pulled up
and asked where
I’ve come from
and where I’m going

by stars
that stand
on night-watch
in the river.