Song of the Sligo Lady

I heard about the Sligo River
in young songs from California
from befuddled guitar players
living in the wrong century
tuned open.

Where was my open love
back then when my hands
could learn new languages
at the drop of a pen and at
all hours?

She has my hourly mind
made soundly up and I keep
hers in the sewn-up pockets
of my heart still hopelessly
waking up.

Who woke up and animated
those lines curled around
and across that fleeting face I
hear as sky and see as sound
passing by?

Her passive throat is my verb
her eyes preposition me
with pronouns deep down
as yet unparsed and free
from reference.

On my six-string I referred to
m’lady in my late teens
before I knew she was all too real
washing her hands of me in the
Sligo River.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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