Near Trieste there is an old entrance
to Hades
Once popular with Romans but
little-used now.
Stanislaus Joyce, stranded in the
city
By his brother’s destiny, had
entertained himself
By tracing the way there on maps
he would make
Late at night and burn before
going to sleep.
After he died, he haunted for a
while the school
Where he’d long taught
Irish-flavored English
To hapless Serbs and Italians, who
loved him.
Many of them died in the war;
their ghosts
Importuned him to come along with
them
Down the Timavo River to where it feeds
Into the Styx. He hadn’t the heart to say no
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