By Gracie Moran
I saw chilled extremities
stretched over the bridge’s ledge,
ducks creeping through the pond in St. Stephen’s Green
like children peeking out of bed covers.
Striking arabesques marked
by breadcrumbs vibrating
a mirrored stage,
answered by feathers and webbed feet
snatching up wet yeast.
Their waxy necks
looked up at us,
a botched civilization that can
share bread,
carve a statue while toppling another into the earth,
lend a stranger a light, and
see the sun glaring in a new spot in the sky
venturing to call it
February in Dublin.
