Somewhere we have arranged with spring
a language of lament. To hear you’ve died. Abrupt, enough
to tear the earth along the Aegean.
Sixty years , this unfinished sentence: through
a telescope of bone. With spring , as autumn, you wrote,
an old man’s Lent. Such currency of quiet charm,
felt it all, it seems, their hurt ,
: of friends divorced, dying or depressed , if this
a crappy year, you asked. Your love , an island
by the low rise
of lake. And now,
this urgency of emails; to rephrase silence
as it petrifies, where once you roamed
against all reeling.
What gap-toothed boardwalk of acoustic riff, a distance
travelled regularly, and with ease. And into hours.
A circle of chairs. A beer on the lawn.
If, as you wrote, to die is truly to become invisible,
then perhaps this isn’t possible. A dram of single malt,
the waves of which
have crashed. These poems, carved from bread and butter,
secrets , tundra :
ancient , deeply human. Stone
as old as wine.
I only just heard you were sick.