This spin is eternal and ever growing
The recitals to be heard is a harvest
Reaped from Dublin’s city.
There I’ve hid my poems
Behind park benches, window sills
In coffee stops, at meeting squares
Even under her cobbled streets.
Sharing space with dead vikings
And the blood of martyrs. They wait
Soaked in the phlegm of the common man.
Buried in the filth scattered by the mob
They pulsate. Hibernating. Primed to rush
By the muse that enlivens: a salve’s smear
Eyeballing the posse of knowing. Anointing all.
Making fly. Sourced from the ether streaming
Blessed things. Lifting skirts, knocking crowns
From heads and tales. Insistent.
To fill the void they’ll come.
By faith I hear them…