Dublin pulls on like
beloved gloves I’d forgotten
I lost, familiar, warm,
wandering into the grocery
and pondering the produce
like a man who owes
this city rent, how to
explain this hobby? Trying
on lives and delighting
in the momentary infinite,
grinning in make-believe
connection toward the
woman who allows my
cutting her in line, o
neighbor, my sister!
Sad if true, I am always
homesick for somewhere,
for cornfield summers, for a
campus emblazoned in
autumn’s yearning goodbyes,
the hard-earned scrape of
New York fucking City,
homesick for the dog who
died without one more
forehead whisper, for the
bruises of lovers who
drenched my poetry in
somatic wounds, dilation
of pupils under the pink-lit
glow of fever, forever,
goddamn it, I
find euphoria in the
stacking of worlds, hoarded
memory wedged between
homes I’ve pretended
were mine, jerk off
before bed and kiss
my palm goodnight,
even the grief tastes like
glory spread across lives
like these, my wandering
wants, aid and abet,
drifting loose as the
dream we fight to pinpoint.
michael king 