You seem very far from home
and who would after all choose a grit pocked
pavement to languish on

Clouds spit on the coffin,
wring oily rags, splash
a woman, her violin
cased in sunken purple.

And did she break your heart?
A woman asks, perhaps imagining
A fallen chalice . . .

Four years in Knockaloe was a living
inspiration for inventor Joseph Pilates.

At thirteen I am competing with James Joyce,
encouraging pain, at the very least discomfort.

And here you are slid from the rain
under my door, “s” -ing along the cool
checks in the hallway.

What is here for us but these walls and the
pearls of sweet yearning behind them

The earth cracks and we are left
with the same shared moon.
She peers through my lattice window
and hides behind your city’s smoke.