(would if I could)
would if I could tell him, going back reading his poems
the absence of his active voice
makes the sun colder
on the river it’s just lovely
under a not-too-hot sun would if I could tell him
we should write about the waters where we are
using dueling metaphors
the days move on in the currents
some days go backwards we are laughing together
about the silly old men we knew we’d become
I’d tell him now how silly it all is would if I could
Are there windmills to tilt where you are?
Here, it all feels like a model not quite to scale
this world, a negative space left by the outline of your absence.
This poem is too concrete to be a proper dedication:
it sinks like a murdered corpse in the river.
I would sink too, but it feels like bad form,
like a machine falling into disuse in the age of plastics.
You were never fond of my rages, the dragons taunting me
but you stood there nonetheless.
There is a heaviness in the shape left by your feet.
I am here and cannot follow.
– for Hermano Jones
