There are moments after bottles
of Spanish Red when I still see you,
that thin boy, bent over his guitar,
laughing through peyote, lying, leering
through time. I can touch that hair,
Anglo-afro, we called it. Wild.
Around your eyebrows too generous.
Your fine lips, your fine
mind lost in Celtic lyrics mouthed
in a melody centuries old.
I want to sit with you on that bench
beside the water in Costa Rica,
pour myself thick over your
need to leave, your need to give up,
your need to walk barefoot
on fire of your own making.
Your voice trampled
into a single line on a postcard.
(Published by Straight Forward Poetry, Issue Ten, 12/20/15)