Hidden among the pounding of animal hides,All flattened into maps, their shapesExplicit replicate butterfly wings, lie the motives of Lír.The king who paid improper attention to his children.From that first fascinationAnd it's lascivious gaze,Came the gorged desire for substance,Among the skins,Nets, shadows and milk bottlesPried from the stomachs of metal fish,Steam, smoke and things that won't stay,Speared, dangled, measured, divined,All dreamed through wallpaper,Or dowsed from something they drowned in long ago.Snowed in on either sideThe swans, Lír's beloved children,Begin their 800 year journeyFrom the lake to the seaTo the escape,the deliquescence.