Winter, Dublin

By Diarmuid ó Maolalaí

crossing the corner
by connolly,
on the second floor
of a moving bus. shunted
through traffic
like a the bricks of a building,
watching the black walls
and waiting,
as they wait,
to fall away
by quayside,
aching for reveal.
 
and it comes;
light, frozen
and spun on the river,
spread out in boxes, discrete
with new buildings,
like stacked embers
but all
blue. that's dublin,
passing
in winter
at frozen
night. picking up
smooth stones
and tasting them. rushing saliva
on your teeth and tongue,
bursting
like water

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