Not on horseback
but that upright
rolled umbrella lance

Bespoke-tailored
well-trained flat cap
smiles for Babba
side of Capel St
not grand

One nine seven
three, is the year
Afternoon up here

Down the quayside
it's still morning
Pro-Cathedral bell
Gethsemene
you're mad, boy

The late picadors
live evermore
vividly
Past futures, cast
like bronze -
Let us therefore
fade away

First Love, Last Rites
stole that 2 times
Left one on a train
Drama, over-valued so's to pose as cultured,
while self-pity reigned:
no heart

Smaller city
Hill-face dayroom
Father, it's your son,
come to senses
as yours leave you.
Watch the seed-plumes glide
down summer slopes
Deathly

Those old Picadors
who always forbore
with easy soul
Gold turns to coal:
you would not be told,
lance unfolds