I have been born into a world I now nothing of.
I have looked into the skies
to know were and whether my lady lies
                                  true and fair.

I await her not. Circe lies on the page I would write,
lonely for her master. I have seen three faces there,
             and Dragon ascended, curled in clouds.
Now the skies have darkened,
night has fallen, the rain falls gently.
The tears of a woman, Father Sky,
and Mother Earth.
The lake rises not; the rivers run in their beds.
And the banjoes of Georgia, black voices and their balm.
Now the lights are bright in Baggot Street,
as I wait for the 10 in Stephen’s Green,
and the pubs are alive in Haddington Road
               toward the light I wander.
Oceans, cultures, borders, tear my lady away.
Zeus gathers himself, unleashing his final assault
               on the heart still in love.
Line by line she would surely die in that other farce.
Azaleas in their second blooming, dogwood by wisteria.
In a few hours the sun will shine again on Howth,
Ireland will awaken to Wednesday of Holy Week,
the bells of St. Mary’s ringing with the sounds
              of Guinness’ men
                                 behind the 51.