St.Patrick's pricks sky red with oils fumes & setting sun dead
cardinals' redhats/blackribbons float
from eaves
banks
of votive candles shadow
walls prayers going up in smoke
down-
town old italian in sleeveless undershirt leans
on wroughtiron railing wine
easing tongue swaying
spirit like old
country night
he cups
a match
face
flickers eyes
close
full
moon
slips through window
street chimes
with glass
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