Irish times

In an Irish cottage, I burnt to death bees and turf, fire watching fate, Fate
stacked empty plastic milk cartons inside a shed, the one where the animals trip security lights, animals as hares the size of lambs, foresters the size of giants
up came an election, Collins, and De Valera climbed the slow release telegraph poles, they were on the same road where freedom drove up to a chapel looked after by Mrs. Nolan
nearly a ten-mile trip to read no ingredients list on the soda bread
boiling some food before the North Korean radio, a Benedictine monk said something must be repeated over and over, I couldn’t remember what it was
Russia invaded Ukraine, Betty Davies, immigrant lesbians, the Bishop and the Disco song

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