Ireland

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—For Peter 

When did I find the music 
of another open-window autumn? 
I’ve left more vodka empties near 
the wardhouse dumpster. 
I’ve touched girls’ faces 
in somnambulistic lives 
and dried my face and hands 
on brown institution paper towels. 

I breathe near your 
hand-knit sweater. 
I’ve smelled the world 
but am sure to forget the 
odor of some wools. 
I’ve slept a summer and dreamed 
an anuretic folktale. I’ve held 
my breath to bend and kiss 
my mother the day her mother died. 

I’ve boxed up weeping foundation 
rocks from Bergerac when I heard you
were dying of the virus on your island,
let more books be ruined in another of
my father’s basement floods. 

I found my soul crouched 
in a scrub oak grove and 
weighed it in the market of 
Notre Dame de Grace.

I’ve spoken to the shadows of
my closet and let them bless and
break the bread of another 
midnight stereo mass. I’ve 
almost let them bleed me 
on an altar of cotton. I’ve waded
the currents of an empty 
canyon stream at noon 
in gym shoes and shorts. 

Dry grass, dry grass, dry grass.
I touch my ribs through sweatshirt
pockets. I remember my writing
of blue-womb safety that ended
when I crossed the Dordogne, myself
walking closest to the water. Ahead,
dead palm fronds scratched against
each other in the wind along the bank.