While in Captivity

The young James Joyce

was never young. Someone

opened up a crack in Dublin

and he fell into Homer’s book.

We glide through the summer

watching the gulls float over

the water, the heron fish,

the men rotate their bellies

around their fishing rods.

Nora understood what men

are, their lust for the other

side of the door, the fear

of one last time. Jim had

thin lips, too, but a beautiful

singing voice.

 

Done