A mayfly taking off from a spike of mullein 
would blunder into Deichtine’s mouth to become Cú Chulainn, 
Cú Chulainn who had it within him to steer clear 
of a battlefield on the shaft of his own spear, 
his own spear from which he managed to augur 
the fate of that part-time cataloguer, 
that cataloguer who might yet transcend the crush 
as its own tumult transcends the thrush, 
the thrush that’s known to have tipped off avalanches 
from the larch’s lowest branches, 
the lowest branches of the larch 
that model themselves after a triumphal arch, 
a triumphal arch made of the femora 
of a woman who’s even now filed under Ephemera.