Yeats Exhibition

The voices of actors on endless repeat
as if every word somewhere
always being spoken,
always being heard
we moved between his manuscripts
projected onto screens reeling
Sligo scenes and ancestors raised
like cheap-trick spectres
by magicians in music halls.
Made sure they were scribbled over,
any words meant to blindside
or to deceive- shot through
and left in his wake.
The bare museum pieces
sealed to not shatter to dust:
this his last pair of glasses,
lock of his hair.
Held in the crypt
of this crisp Dublin day.
This the page his hand moved across.
This his unused love.

Originally Published in Bete Noire, July 2011