Caillte (Lost) by Patricia Walsh

Nothing is enabled to search for you,

after such a long time, a phone call misdirected.

Interrupting your company, a satisfied life,

not understanding literature, seeking refills.


When you flew, you flew far.

Eschewing an invitation to sit with me.

Navigating through the lost exam, intelligence trumped

but not to click with me, wasting decency.


After so long, I state my case.

Not expecting absence, or squared existence.

Children rising and calling you blessed,

a price to pay if I am eventually right.


Burning bicycles in the heat.

Bus in the exact destination trundles on regardless

of five, ten minutes, none of my business

forgetting disks, unlike my demeanor.


If things were favorable, I would

break your domicile, satisfy my ambition

stalled for so long, fearing another

injection to the heart, numbed to perfection.


Waking in the morning sun, settling scores

in the dawn chorus, blares against decorum

arrangements for the long run, stand permanent

hiding behind spouses, an enabled surprise.


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