After The Poet's Death
His poems refuse
to mourn his passing, they
detach themselves from
books, magazines, wall hangings
and float freely
in the fair summer air.
Their refusal to mourn is
steadfast. 'He's just changed
his address, ' one of his
first poems says to the new
lyrics. 'He's done this before,
searching for a better place to live.'
'And we always go with him, '
pipes a small poem, barely
audible, maybe not
completed, hardly a poem
at all. 'We are all of us
pieces of his soul, ' booms
the lordly Epic Poem
of 24 cantos. 'We must
Between Stone And Stars
Walking down Summit Avenue, I saw
the smooth stones and Romanesque arch
of St. Luke's Church, long ago my family's parish.
Inside a solitary parishioner knelt
in the last pew, clutching his rosary,
reciting 'Hail Marys' in a monotone.
My appearance hushed his prayer.
Then and there total silence
always poised within pale brown stones