Issue Four

Summer 2012


Observing Beckett

I’ve watched his skin marble like a lizard’s
as he sat in a bar on the Boul’ Miche.
I have seen him turn his back, raise his collar
and step out towards the A3, Verney,
Dublin, the black void of the auditorium;
always his knapsack slung over his shoulder
and looking like he might be gone for good,
like the thief Augustine said was damned.

But Jim has observed him at close quarters,
scanned the craggy camouflage for symbols,
scoured the raptor features, come away unscathed.
Because Jim, too, could hold his whiskey,
knew the importance of a maiden century,
was practiced in the art of runic script.


Stephen Boyce