(not While You Were in Ireland)

For you,
He Who Doesn’t Like Poetry,
Here’s a short one
That I vow I will not
Read aloud.

You are my
Inward breath,
The one I take
At the crest of every
Steep hill,
Ready to descend.

You are my
Exhalation,
The one I release
When Elliott’s voice
Reminds me
Of another tenuous life.

You aren’t only there
Where you are,
But you are here
Where I am,
Breathing.