In Dublin in December I sat
on a shore bench in Sandymount
& watched thunderheads strut
on stork legs of raking rain while
bullish boats trundled through
with taut cheeks sobbed with rime.
My heart was full of weeks of doubt,
I'd flown in on a night plane
aching with the knowing
that something was badly turned,
distance could no longer be borne,
all the miles within and without.
We drank, coupled, and confessed
through long, long nights as outside
the high open window the stars
sloughed their waffling shine into
the many arms of the river, and gulls
eavesdropped on desperate sins.
By day she showed me her city
of castles and secret gardens,
elephant bones and electric trees,
& quietly urged me to join her.
As we crossed Beckett bridge
to seek troubled love on her couch
we pierced a cold and hanging fog,
prehaunted by the loss that followed.
Although this happened six years ago now, it feels like it happened to a different person in another lifetime. But the person mentioned contacted me again recently out of the blue and so I thought I might write about whatever feelings were dredged up.
I don't know that it says anything I haven't said before about what occurred. I might revise it at some point, maybe.