pondering my association with Mick Dunn

Nearly a third of the blood my heart pumps
began as a dream in Ireland.

A full eighth slogged down
from the highlands in red wet effort
to make my breath worthy of sunlight.

The rest, I've heard was in a song
sung by a buxom brunette from wales
and a navy man from near ol'London

Sloshing about inside of me
with the bits of strangers
in the same odd dance
all the red blood in the world
has done since the first bald monkey
walked out of Africa,
I hear their rhythm
and tribal chants
and remember when my skin was brown
my spear sharp

That is all that is left of me
before my hair grew out.

Before laughter, odd choices,
and my beard grew in.

A third of me, I think,
has flowed down in the clear springs
through the dark heavy unsnaked rocks
between the blades of dark green grass

Listen when I say,"I am not alone.
I see my blood in you."