Midsummer
What meaning—if any—to dreams? Tonight’s, for instance, that clear jar of Connemara poitín left on the kitchen counter—by whom? The memories evoked upon seeing it, many of them not mine, nor yours, surging ascensional from the open lid like a cloud of bats emerging from their roost, sluicing then into the fading twilight toward a faraway hill where a bonfire blazes. Then it is over, Saint John’s Eve.
