June 16

the Orphan, ascending – abandoned for
hundreds of years, left to his own devices –
the devices left to him, packaged

and mailed across the ocean – the Orphan
today was reunited with the makers,
lifted up, replaced atop the crown

that still adorns his fair ancestry (not really,
not even his people's, but human –
so his) to find not some reflection to

reveal truer self in waters foreign –
anyway, the orphan feels too old
to reinvent – but anonymity

instead, and strange comfort therein; knowledge
that great men walked these giant stones and stumbled
not, but shook them into place, to fashion this

expanse by noble molds their own; and hope,
that he'll be one to shake these stones – or stones
back home – to recreate the world to
himself, if not to anybody else.

June 26

Fell Asleep Hard
by 215 Woke Up
Harder by 730
Hot Brick Heavy
in the Head I
Pulled It Together
in a Cold Shower
Hit Whitby Sour
and a Bit
Cramped North
Sea Air Sucker
Punched Back
Almost Knocked
Out and I
Descended into
the Village Like
a Fog for Coffee
and Fried Fish as
a Gull I Circled
but I'd Seen It
Already Bored I
Waited for the
Others and
Together We
Ascended to the
Abbey Past
Cheese Stands
and Street
Guitarists Up the
Steps Halfway
Until We Turned
Around and
Whitby Fell
Apart Soft like
an Onion

sonnet - June 28

The late Mrs. Fitzgibbon would have turned
Sixty-eight this year, if I heard right.
Your way of life changes, Fitz says, not lightly
But with life, as someone who has heard
The still, sad music of humanity
And greets the day with hale voice – and they
Would have been wed forty-four years today.
That song grows soft in age, the melody
Is stretched to fill the lonely twilight hours.
The choice presents itself: to brave or cower
From that music, which is itself the choice
To live or not, and Fitz raises his voice
Over the howl of mountain wind, back bent,
And breathes deep, ready for the long ascent.