Drafted sometime October 2024, posted February 3, 2025
For S.
as I also flow
in the direction
of whatever after is
I search as I go
through blank waves
silver Irish waves where
your mother says
beneath the hills
they gave half of you to sea
the other half to a lake
you visited each summer
near a house in the woods made
of paths I could picture
when you told me
about bike riding late
at night with your friends
to the private island
all the wealthy people’s houses
staring like abandoned graves
as you laughed
at the big moon
and rode too fast hands
triumphantly lifted
flapping and cawing
always toward water