Why not act indulgent and reckless for once?
An oarsman floats on a weightless scull.
Salt in the low marshes. Sunbathers smoke something strong.
There is a broad forgotten flower
in the ruins of our days, rising
immaculate from the frozen earth,
its purple heart waiting for a woman’s
name: Rose, Iris, Veronica,
Put on the sweater that has IRELAND written across the left breast and is a deep itchy green. The hiking boots from Goodwill that hang off the ends of your feet a little.
When the song said that even the sun sets on paradise
I think of you and my body breaks into mist—dear friend—
who once laughed and wept I remember sitting in the next room
hearing the low slow note of your exhale like an oboe’s mumble