Once, in the hiatus of a difficult July,
down Eskra’s lorryless roads from sweet fuck all,
we were flinging – such young sophisticates – like a giant frisbee 
this plastic lid of an old rat poison bin.
 
We were flinging it from you to me, me to you, you to me;
me-you, you-me, me-you, you back again.
And you would have sworn that its flat arc was a pendulum,
compassing Tyrone’s prosey horizon.
 
And I would have sworn that our throw and catch had such momentum
that its rhythm might survive, somehow, without me.