Post midnight from a brothel on Tyrone Lower,
To which flushed Lynch and he had drunk their way,
Like guardian angel or a modern Noah
Kind Bloom delivered him into the day.
It seems his mother’s ghost he’s exorcized:
For in the afternoon, while he conferred
On Shakespeare’s final plays, he realized
He’d solved at last the mystery of “the word”.
Now he can meet the woman of his life,
Whom he shall know when he sees her shining face;
To Europe then he’ll go with this loving wife
In order to forge the conscience of his race.
For, if made manifest, that sweet word love
Indeed aligns the below with the above.
21 January 2019