Mustard, orange, navy blue
around a fake significance.
The loss of Ireland, the 19th century,
what were you to do?
Fuck the beautiful, the gifted
(my mother before she went crazy);
leave the clanging cockroach cold
behind (Bobby);
find the best (Pollock, Kline,
Noguchi, Nakian),
live uptown (Kevin);
die finally.
Well, ashes to ashes then.
But the three of us--your sons,
scattered to separate lives--
one way or another
we carry you on,
this eye,
this fist within.
Sean
Every Moment
Sun warms
one side of the alley.
A young woman smiles at me,
surprised by her new beauty.
Sex, tenderness, cobblestones.
Once I was a Venetian
with my last gold coin.
Once I broke my vows
and left the Order.
Arms around her legs,
the blue milk crate
on which she sits, the
kitchen door propped open
with a mop--every moment
like this.
Portland
For Tamey
Drove over the bridge today,
saw the water far below
and once again imagined
your last jump--
desperation, pain, relief,
a twist of gallantry
across your face,
your final bow to the truth
you always told me to tell.
You sure as hell saved my life.
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