No design.

a view in the shadow 
of the Guinness’s factory
over the Liffey.
looking toward 
the Dead House, 
or off to one side.
that’s what’s in 
Dublin: all buildings,
collapsed and indelicate 
architecture, like a fist
of grey pigeons 
and other wild birds 
around crust. 

there’s a chaos I love 
to these European 
cities—even out-
side that tiresome 
Old Dublin style. 
no, god—make  
no design, no preservation—
nobody making things
to be shown 
to tourists. just practicality, 

as practiced
on the floor of a closet; 
shoes pushed through 
boxes, forgotten shirts,
the broken bones
of coathangers. buildings

slammed up against 
buildings in busy detritus
and pattern. things going
where space allows
them be. going
where things aren’t 
and things are. 

DS MAOLALAI

DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific, bordering on incontinent.” His work has been nominated twelve times for BOTN, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and has been released in three collections, most recently Noble Rot (Turas Press, 2022)