In the weeping room, Baggot Street

At length the tears

were dripping out of everything.

When her kettle whined like an electric cat

the walls and the ceiling cried.

Her cup and her bowl wept in her   throat.

Her tap leaked the same fat brass tear over and over.

Through the mesh she watched the red horizon weeping stars and saw the moonface weeping ice.

At dawn the panes shone with the tears of the wind and the grass outside with the tears of the frost.

Beneath the window

the gutter continuously sobbed.

From sun-down till sun-up men with roadmaps

were queuing for appointments to weep in her  mouth.

On the Television

the newsreaders sat on their silver combs and screeched and all the cartoon superheroes

were speechless with grief.

When they gave her a paper bag filled with broken crayons

she scrawled enormous teardrops on the wall and locked the images of people

who cried in her nostrils inside them  .

One night her tights wept faces her beads wept shadows

her high heels wept beetles

and when an old atlas fell from the shelf exposing itself

it sprayed meaningless tears of dust.

Her ultimate cry

arrived in the shape of two clipped wasps pushing

through a yellow machine in the  door.

They buzzed insanely at her eyes then burst her head open

like a bag of fish.

Then the dancing triangular woods in the distance keened themselves out of existence

and streams gushed from the Wicklow hills desperate for cliffs.