Luciano

Another glorious day. Began reworking a poem I've been tinkering with for awhile; I may have the bones of that devilishly resistant form, a sestina. Then I went for a run in the neighbourhood park, my second one in my new hi-tech Addidas, which I paid enough for, even though they were reduced by a third (hope they weren't produced by some half-starved kid in one of those godforsaken sweatshops). The soles are hollow and springy, like plastic hula-hoops. I'm hoping they'll help ease and protect my half-century-old joints and muscles. Then downtown to meet J from Poetry Ireland for lunch in the NGI restaurant. In the sunshine under that high glass roof, we talked about glaciers (among other things): my failure to get near one on my trip to Iceland, and his success in Chile, where he was taken to one named after a pope (a massive thing, the face was 11 miles across). The runoff is apparently a strange bluish colour; called glacier milk.

I found this performer (above) in Grafton Street, the Broadway for street performers in Dublin. His name is Luciano ("just remember Pavarotti"). He comes from Brazil, of all places. South America seems to be the order of the day.

Here's a couple of other shots I took, in STEPHEN'S GREEN and KING STREET (note the almost matching forearms on the left: one severed and one still attached).