We first laid eyes on you
over drinks and dinner in
the Latin Quarter
a short walk up from
the Spanish Arch, its
mossy history rendered moot
in a heartbeat, along with
anticipation of austere beauty
to come on the wind swept
stepping stone of Inishmore.
The River Corrib gleams
vintage vinyl beneath
Wolfe Tone Bridge,
grainy and black as your
luminous pointillist portrait,
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,
soft morning chamois lifts
the stubborn tarnish of dawn.
We tuck into our full Irish,
drink watery coffee while you
float outside time to the rhythm
of the tides, arc of your life
spooling out in a dream, asleep
in a small brackish sea.
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