Pursuit
Pursuit I grieve the way my dog relieves himself after nipping a rotisserie from the counter: not a clean pinch or pile but scooted across the yard in smatterings and smears that double back till its far from clear just where it began. It's how I hope, too. In the book St. Patrick stands with a staff and a sack at the root of a road unspooling like God’s hair or the slow drift of a loose lash into the Irish Hills. My daughter reads the silence and says I know you want to be that guy. It’s okay. You’re the person you get to be, then proceeds to spill her water and return me to myself, on my knees and shuffling on the trail of all the mess and miracle that won’t be bottled up.