That saturnine, mercurial Irishman
would sit in bars and scribble lines
on beer-mats, not bothering tra-la to scan
mechanically or fret about his rhymes.
His ear pitch-perfect, he would dive
into the flux with gusto and delight
in revelations of the cave
while ironizing Plato’s radiant light.
Who else comes close to coming close
to showing what a lyric might amount to,
a miracle of freedom you can parse,
elegance topped by sprezzatura?
Who else can match his dash
or darkness? Before Charon sticks
his oar in (‘if you want to die’),
I’d wish to praise his maker with words tricked
its destination in a room
that holds reflected doubles, or like minds
kindling a shared thought into flame.