Those angels that peer over our shoulders -
Unseen yet vigilant recorders
Of all our myriad percepts and notions,
Dipping quills cut from seraphic pinions
Into ink that will neither fade nor run -
Have they room in their imperishable
Ledgers to preserve these whimsical
Peregrinations through the streets of Dublin?

Probably not. Our itineraries,
Our eyes that glide through geometries
Of Georgian brick mellowed by northern sun -
They're all slated for demolition.
'There's no Preservation Society for the likes
Of us,' I tell the tweedy, imaginary
Companion who walks with me,
...