For M, With The Irish Eyes
A long Sunday Monon trail I’m passing through,
and suddenly I have these dreams of you.
I taste them in my love-glazed lips and in my chai—
—I’m once again enshrouded in your lovely Irish eyes.
I hope the next time that you eat fish
you’ll be reminded of a longstanding wish
of a tiny house in the mountains for two
and my red hair and Bowie eyes, loving you.
A sudden letter on that Sunday of trails
urges me to repair a love that almost failed.
My arms have been crying, and yours have too,
as have my hazel Bowie eyes, butterfly-kissing you.
The junction of Midwest and Catskill skies
Make me realize
That this love never dies.