I enter Ireland’s award-winning water closet. Hut of orange innards. My skin a rind the midges suck. Mirror of panels of mirrors. I reflect incomplete, looking at my camera’s eye. Two dried teabags lie outside. Omens of heated thirst. Moss as brittle as the steep-less. The sound of sheep but they are miles across. The echo might seek your mouth. This is the simple speech among the barks of trees. Many are uprooted, soil-mass in the air, silhouette cloud/clod/clot. They seem to have noses and foreheads, limbs to be petrified. Mouth open. Life-suggestive. Holes with rustles. I walk ahead to lack the human voice. One wrong lean and I will thin alone forever. The trail does not go to the highest, but so the highest can see you. If there is one. Shadows thicken then starve then thicken, their feast an equation with the sky. I learn to peel away the sugared crust of pie, direct to sappy rhubarb flesh and make it end.
