praise: No-See-Ums

i haven 't written of you, james.

i would like to praise the night of the wild violin

and  you, rabsrabble angle of arms and legs

swinging out of a saloon on the isle of skye

a dent in your forehead where a fight had 

spread a dark blue stain.

we brushed away the no-see-ums on our own hill,

and waited  for the midnight sun to leave the sky

as boats rocked together in the harbor, 

dew formed on the ruins of fortresses around us, and

the bugs came and bit and went.

you explained how the gnats worked their way around

in a cyclone wisp and bit harder than expected

how there was no remedy but patience. 

you invited me to stay, to meet your mother,

but i left in the morning

my clothes still damp from dew,

my head buzzing with talk.

you sent me a drawing of a sad-eyed dog

and asked when i'd return. 

i, the ungrateful traveler,  

never wrote back,

never returned to that light-

and damp-soaked island

where some chromosonal twist

hummed in loamy recognition.

i just sat here, ten years later

and stuck you in praise to a page.