Do you come seeking a battle or a poem,
asked the old Irish border guards
of strangers in rattling raiment
on the darkest nights of the year.
Bronkowski says the same thing
on his tombstone: ”Don’t Try.”
Either go to your borders
with a well-sharpened sword,
and the songs that burn in you to sing them
or stay by the fire, stirring the pot
and scratching the dogs ears
until evening draws down
your own tired eyes.