dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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a f f i n i t y

b y    m a r k   m u r p h y

We are the public statues, stirring, stirring
                        in the town squares at night.
We are private beings, moving, moving
                        through this public space.
We are strangers in the head, clutching, clutching
                        at our ribboned hats.
We are Ithaka’s wings, moving, moving
                        in the scattered breeze.
We are the Bronte sisters, dreaming, dreaming
                        of dying, always dying.
We are Anne, Emily and Charlotte, moving, moving
                        through the graveyard of our father’s ministry.
We are the bronchial children, playing, playing
                        in the grounds of the Parsonage.
We are the breathing ghosts, moving, moving,
                        breathing and moving in the dark.
We are the human creature, crying, crying,
                        treading the boards thin.
We are Balzac’s cloak, moving, moving
                        unceasingly in the night wind.



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