In the Dominican Hall I inspect
the clutter of blunt
cutlery, Cristophers
and a rusted trumpet, as parish women
mend cardigans

and children tag. It is
market day, and crab apple
boughs turn gold. The confessionals
are humming. On winter’s
edge I am enchanted

by the rummage I love—adze
and hammer, gate
latch, cracked Baleek
and a Claddagh broach. Housewives
haggle and a man in tweed

fondles the terra cotta pots
like a clairvoyant after
a crime. Ransacking the shambles
for bargains I move
from table to table

among people who will not forget
a button’s value or
how much a rescued candle
can matter. Will
the scuffed wireless

fetch Dublin? Reckon the red fiddle
can raise a tune? A Belfast
man bows the strings,
and we all stand hushed till
a girl with hair

in a woodpecker crest
dances across the floor—
scissor-kick and flashing heels.
The chandelier casts
light around the hall

like a hand grenade scattering steel.