DEAD WAKE

Nothing much has changed since I left here.
There is a pigeon resting, spattering
the face of another blunted saint.
There is a numbers board clicking
at the Irish bar across the street,
the neon weakly blinking
through wrought-iron gates.
There is the ungiving sluice of traffic
from the highway, not stopping,
constant as tides.

And there is smoke
from some early Autumn stove.
Smoke which rises, urgent and groping, forgetting the fire from which it's made.