When the city finally stopped and the road, pockmarked with rain
and paper, summoned up grass like a demon
and all the cars along the M4 west to Lucan and Cabra were spent as
Things became as they were.
Chrysanthemums in the windows. Cats along beds of scratched oak
tables. On the mounted colonnades and white stone
face of the general post office, a thick slime of lichen smeared
its way, decadent as cancer, through a cracked pane of glass.
Everything was as it should. And how like the flies and rooks on
Green, the flood water took Saint Stephen's.
A jungle of chairs and wheels sending yellow flakes into the sky
and a great parade of wings to match the butterfly.
And the Mater Private too, just northeast of Eccles and then again
northeast of the Basin where, five-fingered, the blind
glove lies across a fine dust of mildew and latex; the soiled
shelves obscene with mucous traps. The floor with syringes and
And how, like everything, the great oaks and fruits and foxgloves
and ragweed of two day's rain emerged from slabs
on South Parnell; a snake found amidst the foliage and rubble,
subtle as a high-thrown watermark, and beckoning from up the
tree-trunk like a wisp.