Belfast Tune (J. Brodsky)

Here's a girl from a dangerous town 
She crops her dark hair short 
so that less of her has to frown 
when someone gets hurt. 

She folds her memories like a parachute. 
Dropped, she collects the peat 
and cooks her veggies at home: they shoot 
here where they eat. 

Ah, there's more sky in these parts than, say, 
ground. Hence her voice's pitch, 
and her stare stains your retina like a gray 
bulb when you switch 

hemispheres, and her knee-length quilt 
skirt's cut to catch the squall, 
I dream of her either loved or killed 
because the town's too small.