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A Simple Thing

There's a he and a she separated
by slender wood: engraved and
bitten into.
One broken flip-flop clops
along the wooden floor.
Each footfall sinks
into sand. A final
whistle cuts
the air as each
memory chugs
away on forgotten
tracks. Romantic
rubbish is stuffed
into recycle bins.
To have been is to be
carried away and pushed
open by the lidless.
I must mind
my memories, mine
the dark ripples.
The meat
of the body eats
itself.

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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
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I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…