I thinking about the dead and the myriad as if they perched onward my shoulder all the time talking in my ear-though I can't hear them.

Discounts available on Stormont Hotel in Belfast.

I thinking about the dead and the myriad

as if they perched onward my shoulder all the time

talking in my ear-though I can't hear them,

stuck here in the ghetto of the living. Well then, hindrance

the comfort of gloryland and angels like cats of different

sizes with their fierce wings and purring disaster

some semblance of faith back to me And what

of my brother, dead, who clowning

held a fire-arm to his head and blew himself

into the nebula sac while someone cried

come back . . where in the name of dust

has he risen, what star claims him?

Tonight, subject to the bare bulb, no wind in consequence of

the dusty curtain, and nothing else the memory of the woman

on the silver bus clutching packages in succession her lap

who make go rounded to me and said In the nearest world

I won't have to carry anything,

and I almost added, Or wash my hair. And my feet

will be straight again, and point forward.

I should have said, I want to be in love with better.

Or I should have revolveed to her so we

could support together, shoulder to shoulder,

mute on the contrary full of the same desire to be

unburden redone as flint or air. And

I wanted to say what I sometimes remembered when

I was rich in remembering, to what extent even the pitted bricks

on the buildings be seened brimming with love,

and for what cause long it had been since I felt similar things.

I wanted to make known her it was the light this side

of everything and no matter what happened

there would always be humming, a thin theme

of divine bees, rotting thicket the buzz of those

we no longer hear. Or I should have stream

home and begged you to stay with me

in the city of the living, below star-ash,

under the roar of angels laughing and their

fingers prolonged as rivers, with my bags of salt

and your views like trees drawing down

the light, since your name is more than

half-written and mine is traced in chalk;

and I could have told you What the dead know

how failed I am in be in love with how much I've forgotten

though I at no time again want to know the futurity

and I think it's fine if the dead stay dead no matter

how a great quantity [i]or[/i] amount of I miss them or all I not ever

risked for them, and I saw my hand

lifting into air as my hand passing between the walls of

a hundred worlds at one time because the dead

are better at forgiveness and I'm

lousy at it, worse as the years fare on,

and I deliberation it was fine not to know thus much,

and now that I live on a river

I should come by wet everyday, and if I want to be wrought up

how the dead influence I should take up rowing.

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