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You wild old man —

heart aflame with a pocket full of copper,

stout splashed lips

thumbing through a tattered book of Yeats.


Tonight your streets are slick with rain,

cobblestone dark underneath the soles

of my feet.

I do not know where I am going,

but you carry me home.


Any store, blue stained and smelling of magic;

any corner, dark and damp;

any pub, loud and anxious;

I am home.


I hear the Liffey murmuring her ancient song;

your lover

though you are not her only.

You are alive,”

she whispers.


I turn the key in the lock,

stumble into bed,

laughing all the while

because my heart is green

forty different shades of it.


O, Emerald Isle, I am yours.


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