revision

Dinner In Galway

We first laid eyes on you over drinks

and dinner in the Latin Quarter,

a short stroll from the Spanish Arch, 

its historical significance gone

in a heartbeat along with all

expectation of ambush

by austere beauty

on those wind swept stepping stones

Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer.

The River Corrib gleams

like vintage vinyl beneath

Wolfe Tone Bridge,  

grainy and black as your liquid

image glowing serene on screen,

countless heartbeats of moonlight

mingling quayside with the sea

in a salty embrace that stings

my eyes and seizes me

by the throat.

The windows of St. Martin’s

frame the timeless river.

Soft chamois of morning lifts

the stubborn tarnish of dawn

from its braided embellished tales.  

We tuck into our full Irish and drink

watery coffee while you float outside

time to the rhythm of the tides

in your small brackish sea.

For Henry

Dinner In Galway

We first laid eyes on you over drinks

and a late dinner in the Latin Quarter,

a short stroll from the Spanish Arch, 

its historical significance gone

in a heartbeat along with expectation

of ambush by austere beauty

on those wind swept stepping stones

Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer.

The River Corrib rushes

beneath Wolfe Tone Bridge,

grainy and black as your liquid

image on the screen,

countless heartbeats of moonlight

mingling quayside with the sea

in a salty embrace that stings

my eyes and seizes my throat.

The windows of St. Martin’s

frame the timeless river.

Chamois cloth of morning

lifts the stubborn tarnish of dawn

from its braided embellishments.  

We tuck into our full Irish and drink

the watery coffee while you float

outside of time in your brackish sea.

To the mothers

Mother To Words

It’s the letting go,

book of your hands

forever falling open,

your words on the page  

taking flight a few downy

letters at a time, sentences

learning to trust their wings,

short forays of paragraphs

you strain to read against

porcelain blue sky, 

whole chapters lifting

off as one to wheel

by their own lights,

leaving you

to slip between

these clean white pages

with a good book,

trying not to read

too much into the author’s

soaring dedication. 

revision

Racquetball

Years after giving up the game

for good I still dream of turning

up late to a match juggling

a chipped red racquet,

high-impact lenses,

salt tanned right hand

glove and two

blue balls fresh in the can,

my dream court receding

down darkened halls,

a warren of identical doors,

portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,

florescent flickers that merge and pool,

flushing me into flat light within

a stark white cube to toe the red

service line once again only to find

my forehand serve impeded

by stacked furniture and packing

crates arranged into a crooked lane

plat of a miniature medieval

Bruges.  Racquetball,

a game of angles gone

sadly out of fashion,

the MacGuffin in my dreams  

and my playing days when you

were my true opponent.  Never one

for racquet sports, you ran me

stroking passing shots, methodical

while I hurled myself heedless

headlong into walls, losing on points,

nursing trophies of bruises. 

revised

Reading In Bed

As it happens I did not buy this book

of collected poems in St. John, New Brunswick or

Charlottetown, P.E.I.  I didn’t pick it up

in Yorkville on a long weekend in Toronto,

nor was I delighted to spot it in a window display

on a stop I didn’t make for coffee in Kamloops, B.C. 

No doubt Halifax has its share of bookstores,

none of which I’ve visited on the road

to North Sydney to catch the ferry to Newfoundland,

where one imagines happening upon a salt cured,

weather beaten mom and pop clinging to life

quayside in St. Johns.  

The border with sleep lies just up ahead

where soon I’ll be borne across

on thoughts of the boats of these poems

lifted on the rising tide of the U.S. dollar,  

Billy Collins buttoned up for the night

inside a tent pitched upon the calm seas

of my chest.

   

Exchange rate

Reading In Bed

As it happens I did not buy this book

of collected poems in St. John, New Brunswick or

Charlottetown, P.E.I.  I didn’t pick it up in Yorkville

on a weekend spree in Toronto, nor was I delighted

to spot it in a window display when I stopped

for lunch in Kamloops, B.C. 

No doubt Halifax has its share of bookstores,

none of which I’ve visited on the road to North Sydney

to catch the ferry to Newfoundland,

where one could imagine happening upon

a salt cured, weather beaten mom and pop

clinging to life quayside in St. Johns.  

The border with sleep lies just up ahead

where soon I’ll be borne across

on thoughts of the boats of these poems

rising on the tide of the U.S. dollar,  

The Rain In Portugal a tent

rising and falling on my chest.

   

re-revised

Racquetball

Years after giving up the game

for good I still dream of turning

up late to a match juggling

a chipped red racquet,

high-impact lenses,

salt tanned right hand

glove and two

blue balls fresh in the can,

my dream court receding

down darkened halls,

a warren of identical doors,

portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,

florescent flickers that merge and pool,

flushing me into flat light within

a stark white cube to toe the red

service line once again only to find

my forehand serve impeded

by stacked furniture and packing

crates arranged into the crooked lane

plat of medieval Bruges. 

Racquetball,

a game of angles

gone sadly out of fashion,

the MacGuffin in my dreams,

as it was in my playing days

when you were my true opponent,

King of Center Court running me,

stroking passing shots, methodical

while I hurled myself heedless

headlong into walls, losing on points,

nursing trophies of bruises. 

lawn work

Thatching

Lower, lower, a little more to the right, right,

so I work my way down ahead of the rain,

laboring under the gaze of a robin overseer

relaying your wanton desire in bossy birdsong.

She keeps an eye out for worms while I mind

the angle of the rake, ride grassy undulations,

tines biting into your arching back.