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…

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