I look across the garden

And I feel into the far pockets, the lay-by’s of sleepiness

Where you can check in for a moment, and rest your soul

Against the dual carriageway, but also beside the cool sea

Where wounds of urban and pastoral surgery, conjoin with awkward knives

And there a bee buzzes at a Dandelion in the park, beside Booterstown, the estuary and the reserve, curlews probe in soft reverie

As a freighter roars past on the morning’s shift

But we have slept and we are fortunate, not on the train or in doorways but in beds and with milk and bread and heat

Unlike the black tramp under the bridge at deadlight

Her fleece a soggy brown, her limbs hard as old honey, the dawn deliveries of Dawson St. pummel her muteness, her frightened silence, delivering her into the forest

The taste of loneliness buzzes behind her eyes like that bee and on her tongue like sand her tide soars out and she remembers how many of her friends are dead or in decay

Bereft she flicks a needle, and within moments she is gliding, a taraxacum propelled by illegal ink

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