Love, earlier I’d thought
the dead were playing tricks on us
when in my rush to reach you
I fell up our stairs,
bruised ogham-lines 
all across my shins.
But in our bedroom I know
it’s us playing tricks on them – 
open in me the eye
that shows me forgotten things:
indigo fog over Mountjoy Square,
the yellow of a night time train station,
the red airborne shape of a slap 
I once felt a woman give me
seven leagues away.
I offer it back to you, dead millions,
in your sleeping rows – 
the open lens,
the wash of it,
the seas’ Caesarean fold where riptides meet.
What does the cell know
as it swims in the Petri dish?
I know points of light, I know laughter.
My flesh and my closest flesh
are laughing at you still.