He doesn’t mean my address.
She’s a Yank. She can’t help it.
The jukebox and its revelations.
I pull pints in a shop window.
and the deal with a candle.
The dampest cold pervades.
Half an ounce of what?
Tobacco loose behind the bar.
He ships out the year I’m born.
Mixing beers a regular custom.
Chicago is the closest they can imagine,
knowing nothing of the Great Lakes.
that f r i s s o n, I won’t say destiny,
his eyes the color of frozen seas.
We drive to the end of the island.
Peat stacks up outside doors in bricks.
Seaside villages with far away names,
side-to-side sway of loading ships.
essentially open plains with nothing much to see,
wooly sheep huddling on the hills.
whisky song, bend in the barrel, burn burnishing,
Highland history in every craig and firth.
It was always Culloden in his soul,
something misbegotten on the front lines.
quine for young woman, aye for yes.
We are the manifestation of where we come from.
comprising the edges.
I can’t stay without being married to somebody.
I never advise eloping,
two kinds of cloud hovering in the sky.
my white blouse with its long ends,
I can’t get the ties to look right.
It bothers the picture.
bustle of a cathedral city, ruins left standing,
“I do” stakes out some higher ground.
never mind the treacle, soot and flour,
the joining of two exiled northerners.
each day a facing off, marriage finally
an emigration of purpose, chance meeting.