Dublin
Morgan Bazilian


Dublin in the sun
Stilted and foreign
Not used to the attention
 
The light moving into the corners and cracks
The bits of dust
The drunks, pale skin turned red
 
She showed herself
Down Camden Street
With the flowers and the fruit from Spain
 
The people squint from inside pubs
Or out on the quay drinking light pints
The canal starting to smell
 
Old men rolling up their pants
In Stephen’s Park
Winding trails of asphalt
 
Thrown out fried food
Mixed with glass
And dried blood on the curb
 
Then the night
A small red tinge in amorphous clouds
And a hint of quiet