Ae Fond Kiss
What was it I knew then
have now forgotten entirely
was it the parting by the river
that first girl I held at Harvest
or planting season when love
sprung vernal or was it squandered
by the dock at Greenock
where I lay my Mary down or
at sea the last farewell to Jean
when I cast myself out
like a line of fishing wire
pitching as the ship pitched
propelled away from shore
toward the fettered horizon.
Life itself became disease
aboard the Bell, passage to Jamaica—
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