Wandering the television one abandoned Sunday morning

I find a travel show about the coast and islands of western Ireland.

There’s a scene upon a cliff-top above the Atlantic,

and in the instant it takes to fill my heart and tear ducts

I am there with you, hands inside each other’s brand new Aran jumpers

and your eyes the only one of forty-one shades that matter.

 

I couldn’t be more lost if that sea were real and you shoved me into it.

 

Next, a typically quaint Kerry town, a typically lively pub.

We are there, too, sharing a table with strangers, still side by side

but uncoupled by the half-nine crowd and reeling trad.

You say the singer is cute and you tell the barmaid you adore her accent

and now it’s my stomach’s turn to feel: that ache, that churn, that theft

whenever you melt in the love of other poets.

 

I’ve never been to the coast of Ireland,

but that beguiling shore where you and I meet is familiar territory.

This is the guidebook.