"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

Dublin 3/Bray, Ireland

the jet-black drowning
of the lady in the
water
bobs against the cool sun

the window panes are cracked here.
house full up.

tea and violence in the
late morning--
across the green she goes.

guinness and potato in the
early evening.

Bandage wounded feet.
Empty the slate-brain dusted chalky.

An early flight tomorrow.

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