My head is heavy with green blowing grasses and slate gray stones stacked and restacked with such care right down to the blueblowing sea and velvet brown ales slipped as much over my eyes as down my throat slick like the lanolin rich handwoven scored in the shop? house? down the unmarked path near the sunken church where Saint Kevin’s brother sleeps and I think so could I so could I. The lady of the house speaks about every day things but in Irish making strange lullabies out of the humdrumities of daily life: the milk’s not come off the boat yet, “An maith leat bainne? Nior maith, go raibh maith agat.” To bed now in a snug room made for someone half my size and twice the lady, red rosebud curtains, lavender walls, and a low knottywood ceiling box me in courtesies and kindnesses and brownbreadforbreakfast promises while the wind whistles and I’m still thinking of Saint Kevin’s brother sleeping just outside my window covered ever deeper under a blanket of cold sands. Maybe he’s not even there and the church is sinking to meet him under the sea tonight; I’ll dream an Atlantean mass where we’ll sing all the lost carols of Hy-Brasil.