Thursday, April 13, 2017


For twenty years no muse visited Macniece;
He became a respected critic whose poems
Were unreadable and unread.
Then his muse returned; he was delighted
She wasn’t sober and had obviously
Been through hard times. Still, he took her in
When she came by at 3 in the morning
Singing and swearing, riding on the back
Of Death's motorbike, her white arms
Locked tight around the driver's waist.

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