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we are in aodhains place. it's saturday;

chrysty's gone home and I've not

much to do. we planned having wine

tonight. slices of cheese; some ham

and a fire. it's wonderful – aodhain's

turned off all the lights. the room is a plum

on a dust-wooden table – a still life,

and we are still, talking of things.

the sofas are really upholstered,

there's carpets, and the house

is a long empty body with bones.

and it's old – it gets mentioned

in the Ulysses funeral chapter.

he's 30 and still lives at home

for right now, and still trying

for work in the colleges.

I truly admire that – not to give up

on the thought that things might

be yet known, though he gigs on the side.

right now it's the census, and he thinks

to me quietly that he might

buy a car with the money.

I did it too, once, and we talk some

about it – I didn't make his

kind of cash. the sun sets quite late –

the clocks just went forward. but still

we stay later, and when I go out it is dark.