Thomas Kinsella quotes

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Ancestor . . . among sweet- and fruit-boxes.
Her black heart . . .
The goddess who had light for thighs
Grows feet of dung and takes to bed,
The window is wide
On a crawling arch of stars, and the night
Versing, like an exile, makes
A virtuoso of the heart,
Interpreting the old mistakes
And discords in a work of Art
In slow distaste
I fold my towel with what grace I can,
Not young, and not renewable, but man.
I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,
Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,
A dry downturning mouth.
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