it is ten o'clock...on a dead-end street
the tapered end of a dimly lit candle
the walls cold from so many centuries
and far too few torches in the night,
memories of the dead-end world.
the Shannon, with dark and lovely tongue
laps the rock-rimmed barriers below
her tourists tucked in their cozy little beds
their buses airing in their own open bays
and far too few figuring hours in the night,
no memories behind the yellowed doors.
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