Only a few moments ago,
I slumped on the floor by your bed like a child
and pressed my thumb into the fleshy nook of your elbow and felt the last waxy warmth between your ribs and your arm,
as though you were still able to hold me.
And I thought then about wandering upon the wet cobblestones in Galway after dark,
live music from gallery bars competing with the rushing of the sea and the stars
falling one by one like shivering birds shot out of the sky.
Sleep well now, my love, and thank you for it all.
Come to watch us through the windows from the crooked branch of your blossom tree,
smile at the way we stand in the kitchen, pale and silent, and stare dimly
into the cold metal at the bottom of the sink.
Today the sky is salmon and they haul calves, long limbs tan and rigid, to the river.
For a moment they jumped in the fragrant meadow with their mother trudging behind, but they will sink within the hour and glide through the sapphire depths
as nothing more than fish bait.
Stay there in the square garden until we laugh again
on some ordinary day, when we puncture for a moment the swelling of our grief
and remember how wonderful and silly it all was
and how, eventually, even the luckiest people run out of time.