SYNTHESIS Comments

A late-arriving friend brought by

a basket of flowers progressively arrayed,

white proper roses in the center

fortressed in their buds,

a moat of laurel leaves

around the Achilles virtue of their freshness,

and something else among their vital defended naïveté . . .



And as our torrent of familiarity brought up

a daze of stories, inner-tubes of events,

tree-trunks of seductions, twigs of fame,

their chance and reckless current flung your name

forcefully against the boulders of my hearing

how you had died in Africa too soon

— your heart fell from its horse.



So why had I insured your life

in some newly-constituted little poem?

It searched for a customer like mad.



I don't even remember

what huge sensation I exerted

to ensure your voice's mane

the silver melodic identity

— in capital notes inscribed

the purebred name of your hand —

the violent equestrian gaze

and me left below it at the trough.



. . . dark little purple knots, third cousins

twice removed of tears, bury your very early news.
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