My island month is over and I go back.
I wrote. Was lonely. I saw the other islands
locked in the lake on days of sunny silence.
At night, I read a long meandering book.
Deer and boar would make the odd foray
across the frozen fields. I settled in
and found a way to stretch out on my own.
The month is over. Soon I'll get the ferry.
And I go back to you, my only love,
in the midst of it the whole while I was gone,
the hassle I can't hack now and again
and need to see reduced to just a fleck,
a flake that falls somewhere over the lake.
But now you draw me. You are why I leave.
READ MORE
Justin Quinn’s most recent collection of poetry is Early House (Gallery Press). He lives in Prague
