Here, histories mingle

like fingers meet at a palm.


Early mornings in the city, waking –

I run along that wrinkle between thumb and wrist,

cobblestone walkways

laying ground

to highrise McDonald’s signs

and German tour guides,

foreign sneakers pounce

to capture the city as it wakes –

with flash.


The valley between fingers

crinkle with littered paper –

sidewalks lined with the Irish Times


yesterday’s stories crunch under

rushing business feet,

ink blotched from last night’s beer –

mâché carpets of crosswords

and local marriage announcements.


And Joyce orders a pint

at the base of my palm –

Wilde writes

on a stool beside my forefinger –

and Mr Kavanagh reminds

to inquire about him

in a hundred years’ time.


I keep them

cupped in my hand

for the drive back to my Galway.