“How on God's earth can you possibly love a thing like me?”
(Joyce letter to Nora - December 6, 1909)
He takes up a new position at the bottom
of the bed, utterly and comfortably
without pillow or blanket
his countdown begins from seconds to sounds
that will draw her back from her small rebellion
He doesn’t mind her being so different
as to be distinctive until she wishes
for the impossible and blue and neverending
subtext of his tearing her apart until she’s no longer
(c) Tim J Brennan
"WHAT IS HOME WITHOUT
Plumtree's Potted Meat?
With it an Abode of Bliss"
Ulysses: James Joyce