While I am in this trance
of sweet fate
and at hem of its dream, Julie,
we reside in the town of Luggalo.
Just you, I, and the apportionments
of ourselves in mystery of love
that begets the father and daughter
from a greater self, a plural sought
in other avenues, a place
where we can meet, remain in
now or then
and call it just our home.
Luggalo!
When I am gone you are the mayor
and keeper of its blocks, the envelope
of twelve souvenirs, a golden key
of such satisfaction you handed me,
as in-hand in your yellow jumper we
had strolled past statues of our best times
strewn with garlands
on the pennywhistle street.
We are the purveyors
of special estate, portraits hung
in a long hall frequented by visitors
from the hamleted countries abroad
who wonder what each painted day
was like—theirs as ours
when we were for each other
not card nor carol sung
on the receiver after ale, but
commune of a mute devotion,
spoken through condensing clocks
and watchful signs on borders
braced and healed, real in the mindless heart
of memory, directed to this point of map,
town of wonder, said after
what you could say of our name at the age of two,
Luggalo, that place in which I’ve slept
and will ever wake to, years hence,
even in the widening of your eyes.