To Die In Dublin With My Sweetheart - Poem by gregory collins
As for my heart, darling, know it will be forgotten.
I might be able to kiss my hand with it, and touch
your lips that remind me of my grief; But on all sides
it is an ocean addressed to you. So, should we stay
near it, or run. Run like, maybe, back to Dublin.
Exchange summer, winter, and fall for four seasons of spring.
When God, if she wishes, will let us look for wine and
smells larger than anyone's. Where thoughts and starry skies
touch skillfully, and what is it about you that i thank goodness for.
Is it bicycling across our minds when we are together, or
is it the last good-bye in the quiet garden bed. Where i write
with an honest mind, that to die in Dublin, with my sweetheart,
her eyes looking at me as if sorrow, and sin, and death
did not return or answer. Like all pain forgotten turns to dust.
Especially when i hurt in little ways just enough to almost touch
heaven: To never become tired of imagining us all longing.
Imagine us all still together, whispering such a spell of kisses,
it furls the skirt of the sky with something for others to read;
With something the rest of the world will likely not hear.
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