DEATH

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sun hits the wall
sun hits the wall at the eleventh hour
you’ve been here 
but once before

not the prettiest walls
but they’ve protected the real
for a hundred years, red-brown
as blood and earth

the voice of the Asian
Down’s Syndrome boy
hollers
pure as a horn

you’re in the east now, my brother,
the west has seen its final sunset,
the city is baked
from frozen

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Poetry: Niall McDevitt

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Photography: Max Reeves

 

(N.B. This poem was posted on August 12, William Blake’s death day)

 

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About Niall McDevitt

Niall McDevitt > poet > author of b/w (Waterloo Press, 2010) and Porterloo (International Times, 2012) > urban explorer > radical pedestrian who leads Shakespeare/Blake/Rimbaud /Yeats walks, among others.
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