Belfast Tune

Here's a girl from a dangerous town

               She crops her dark hair short

       so that less of her has to frown

               when someone gets hurt.

       She folds her memories like a parachute.

               Dropped, she collects the peat

       and cooks her veggies at home: they shoot

               here where they eat.

       Ah, there's more sky in these parts than, say,

               ground. Hence her voice's pitch,

       and her stare stains your retina like a gray

               bulb when you switch

       hemispheres, and her knee-length quilt

               skirt's cut to catch the squall,

       I dream of her either loved or killed

               because the town's too small.

1983, translated by the author.