I want to live where rain strikes hard,
but doesn’t sting my face if I talk back.
Where clouds have holes for climbing
through to escape from everything
once good that you have broken.
I have a secret place between
my ear and neck, where it is soft
and knows a language you cannot translate.
It’s been touched many times before
but on the way to something else.
I wonder sometimes
if my skin will forget
When you come close,
to watch the tears
spill from my eyes,
run down crow’s feet,
into my ears; your words
wash far from comprehension
and I know it’s best to say nothing.
Like lonely men perched along
the bar, hands wrapped
around a beer grown
warm; like sitting
with a song that keeps
me in the car long
after the engine
Chimera Lay can occasionally be found panning for answers in the mountains of the Beara peninsula.