To The Poet Sandra Fowler Poem by Bill Grace

I bumbled into you again
I can tell you how,
and
why
does not truly matter
now you are gone.

It is peace to have known you
Shared admiration for your work
An unexpected package in the mail
We owned hands that never touched.

It will be good to taste again
All that you have left us
The Library of Congress 180 list
Can wait

A
Day
A
Week
A
Month
A
Year
A
Decade

I will grieve.


No more emails from you
Still
I will hear your voice
As I did this evening
Not knowing you were
What this world calls dead.


But
Google
Rarely fails me
And now has told me twice
Of ones I loved
Who have left without permission
Without so much
As a note entrusted to a faithful agent.

I am pissed
but this great feeling comes
only after
a stab deep within
this heart
and the bitter knowing
that you are gone.

The only thing
that blocks death's chill
better than love
is poetry,
poetry and love
an intimation of eternity.