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Slán Abhaile

Never was there a young man more

giddy to tread the grounds

where lie folk they’d never known before,

nor to climb that tower ‘round.


Trav’ling Lyft, then plane, then city bus,

amid the shifting throng,

all to figure out what they meant by “us”

or where “we” were meant to belong.


“For two thousand Euro,” the tour guide said,

“your cremains could remain in this wall.”

Never gladder to know where he’d lie dead,

never standing more proud, nor tall.


This wasn’t the plan when the trip began,

to scout out a resting place,

but once said the man, “Why yeah, sure you can.”

Their wheels started spinning apace.

There Collins, there Larkin, there Parnell,”

they thought, then thought, “and that’s where I’ll go!”

(Though Joyce lie over in Zürich, he knew well,

was surprised to know Yeats lie in Sligo.)


“If they want to come see me,

they’ll come see me here;

cross that shining sea,

forget that imagined frontier.”


Unclear how they’d get back

to the place where he roam,

whether this way or that,

pray: a safe journey home.

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