by Thomas McCarthy

Admit it: in the end we are all Catalan.

This one idea of Europe is dead:

Daniel Cohn-Bendit speaks for himself.

In the cave of ourselves his voice is hollow,

Leaving a sincere French mark upon stone.

We will ever go round and round

Like Saltee sea-birds seeking a haven –

Out of our mist, it is always famine ships,

Forebears,  archipelagos. The wreck of our ship

Is the birth of economies. A rock pierces hide,

An outhouse is filled to the stars.

Our cattle-grid has devoured treasuries.

Give us no more of the well-bred child, Europe’s

Sole survivor. An armada of protocols

Has shed its load off our coast. Heaven-sent,

A squall of blue stars has swallowed Europe.