The price of my silence –

of my not pursuing this matter,

of my not proceeding further

with the pile of dirt and dust

and ash, with the cache of

pain, with the burning

rain, with the contami-


ed states of

careless whispered

falsehoods drawn, via untrusting

you too, and the you too and

yous who now will

never manage to re-

gain my


twhile admi-

ration, sincerest and


loved …

… and bowled over (for

in Dublin it was

so, and oh it was

so) …

… those desires

to spend

the rest of my life and

the rest of my intelligence and

the rest of my kindly being

and seeing and doing

(and with you

too – at least

then as was; at least

then I thought) –

is only what you

must have predicted all this

weird time ago: a slow

but unavoidable

and total estrangement which

must overwhelm me



from brother and brother and

father and mother and cousins

galore, and second cousin in




as you eyed me up for ever

so long with your unreasonable

and unsharing hierarchy

of disdain.

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