To James Joyce


Wait selfish by the sea
for the ghost tide to lick its lips,
for the old stars to mourn.

Love turns endlessly,
and in the shore’s eclipse
a poem is born.

I had discovered Joyce’s Pomespenyeach and was amazed at the quality of four or five of the baker’s dozen therein. I reached the conclusion that he was more of a failed great poet than a great novelist. 

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