I stood atop Slane Hill
Where Patrick’s fire burned
And chapel floors now fill
With cold rain. Each cracked grave
About has risen with
The dead. And tourists, turned
On knotted, brazen lists
Of all the “weak or brave,”
In any case, those lost
Beneath the winning...
American Beauty Exhibition, National Gallery, Dublin I The wounded anger in your eyes, last night,
Seemed for the first time and, perhaps, the last,
To cut through every screen of charm, and sight
In me the innards of a sordid past.
“For too long...