Somebody thoughtless dropped your name:
“Such a shame
about Heraclitus—and so young.”
I bit my tongue,
but hot tears came. Mind’s inward screen
hosted a scrum of flashbacks: long, late-teen
bull sessions, bulldozing through
politics, parties, metaphor, rhythm, pun
and punishment, till we’d talked the sun
out of his sky. But you,
friend, long gone to dust, you’re still in touch:
your poems, those living nightingales, still feel
heat of the sun and moonshine. Their songs peal
forever silvery beyond the all-
devourer’s clutch.
