The Bells of Dún Laoghaire


That summer I spent
in Ireland, near the Wicklow
Mountains—though compared
to the mountains where I
come from they seemed more
hill or foothill—that summer

of my nineteenth year feels
removed, as if from another life
and I think perhaps I keep
reincarnating in this one

without going through the hassle
of dying first. I don’t remember
as much as I should about
that girl-woman, but I recall

a young man’s kisses in an abandoned

stone tower and how the sea turned
to a shimmer of gold like
nothing I have seen since when we
watched the sunset from a cove in Dalkey

and high, clear notes from
the nearby postcard church, a carol
of bells to wake me every morning
from dreams I don’t recall.

For if I can barely remember the waking

hours of long ago, how much more
lost to me are the dreams?






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