A Portion of Recall
In the
pinwheel, time tracks
a wind down flat, still lands
that lounge, concrete and wire, right
back in place like ones I remember
from childish
breath, cobblestone
pathway, watching how the beach
I traced across would
quiver in heat.
New roads appeared;
shut as quickly,
the trod dirt paths and shoe stain
I now manage abacus triumphs and
lose out in station places.
Persist in falling,
root cellar
ambition that took me up and became
a wasted tempest in words
I wrap around the axel of gentle
sleep, sparking nights.
In the space between calculation and
embrace, I find a longing for when
I bought Sylvia Plath collections
for co-eds on the Galway quadrangle,
joined Sinn Fein to sing rebel
songs in tavern backrooms,
and tasted all that was good;
I slow in old wound
pain, a place where blades were
inserted to test how much
I wander in memory spaces apart,
How much I miss what felt
unending.
