Things of Beauty

A poem for St Patrick’s Day

I lived this life but
no one lived it with me.
I lived it alone
without any shared partnership.
A solitary like
that’s not loved enough by others.
A thing of beauty.
To share your song together.
The rail road rainstorms.
The threat that shines above.
The mail train murmur.
His majestic moan.
Shine down, shine below.
A facsimile – folding and turning.
And the maiden who listened
for just one second.
Made the hearing
strain from way down below.
A changing room of wood and mirrors,
of TV screens and the suffocation
you feel in such places.
The pell-mell puttanesca.
The right left, right left
sway of far off signatures.
The sane sudden scuttling
thrown apart with nothing.

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