[Trevor Conway]

In this dense book of black holes,
string theory and universes
which could’ve been if certain elements
were less abundant, or even less amorous,
I work down through leathery paragraphs
till my mind becomes neutrino-soft,
searching for unseen dimensions:

one in which Earth is still,
half the planet lit in day,
the other cold, never-ending night;
a world without my various flaws,
where I fail to notice other men’s wives;
and one where an old man who calls himself Willie Yeats
rattles a cup and asks for change,
telling me as I try to leave,
“Y’know, I used to write poems too”;

an ever so slightly altered place
in which this poem explains at length
the scientific principles of multiple worlds,
of quantum mechanics and wave function,
objective reality and paradoxes
that could never,
in any context,
be misconstrued as poetic;

a universe in which I’m not bored
of watching the Irish football team.
In fact, George Best plays for us.
He’s cleaned up his act,
drinks only water (at worst, flavoured).
He takes the ball in midfield,
hips his way past four English defenders
to slot it home and win for us
the 1966 World Cup.