Poinsettias on the fireplace in August. The bartender says red after the black stuff will be heavy. The accordion player switches to guitar half the time. The two men with strings on their fingers. The pelvis a gathering point, a bowling, stirred. I am neighbored by Connemara whiskey, wet heat that starts in the mouth like any song. Might as well make myself comfortable, says a white-haired man, tugging a square-seated stool. You like this music? We hear it so much and so often, we call it ‘Yahoo’ music. As much as it is played, Van Morrison is never redundant. My browned eyes saw a vast death across a beach five hours ago. The plump buttons of jellyfish lay on the sand, buttons thinning without cloth. When someone tells me of the beach, I pretend it is news, as I couldn’t quite hear anyway. Music papers the room more thoroughly than confetti.
