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