Martello Tower Pilgrimage, 1972 by Anna Egan Smucker

Although it’s not Bloomsday,
I take the bus to Sandycove,
walk the long gray strand
to the tower and Ulysses . . .

The round room, a small museum of photographs,
letters, drafts, his walking stick, guitar,
and somehow discordant . . . bronze death mask. 
I press my hands against the white-washed stone walls,
climb the iron stairway circling to the top . . .

circling to sunlight, to wisps of clouds feathering the sky . . .
lather blowing off Buck Mulligan’s razor blade,
his cold nickel shaving bowl precarious on the ledge.