by Aidan Andrew Dun


Old Shakespearean
actors lost
in evil footlights
shifting, glaring
white probes into
powerful ancient faces
where the traffic
jostles and smokes
along the riverside
very rare men
disconnected from
everything, drift
mumbling lines from
some old tragic act
some endlessly
repeating scene of grief
where trusting souls
meet subtle wrong
invoke the devil through
a wretched crack
beards all speckled
with the soup of paupers
muttering psychotic
truncated phrases
little prayers, some
special name, a vow
all thickly uttered with
the dust and drink
and loss of memory
along the river’s brink.