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.