"This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air. - W. B. Yeats

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Dubin: Wanderer

Hostel with hospital sheets
sterile white
thin walls-- thin enough to hear the talk next door
but not to speak the language.

Hello Dublin--
cobblestones and guinness
and meat in every meal.

Blistered feet-bleeding adventure,
this jet-setting heart is beating something
syn
co
pated

It's suppertime in New York--
A starch, a protein, and a vegetable.

Early yet with eyes fast shutting,
I'll wake tomorrow
wondering where I am
in this submarine of a bunk-bed
with aching toes
and a strange man in the bed
across the room
and fight onward.

To the next drink,
the next shop,
the next field of the greenest grass I swear
I've ever seen.

And feel
alive
awake
electric

A wanderer with shutter-eyes
and a dully aching, full and marvelous
heart.

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