Where are your remains, I don’t know. On second thought,
buried in books, hearts, and heads,
your heart’s histories, “dead vision” that still may lead us
with language that commands Left! Right! Truth! Beauty!
I hear Siegfried’s funeral march.
About-face. Forward, march! Beauty!—most gentle, Officer.
I wish I could believe I will see you soon.
God invented death for His believers.
Howard, it’s a sunny winter day.
Come out, come out, wherever you are. Translated.
I’m for making a distant cousin day something like Christmas.
Happiness and sorrow quarrel,
break matrimonial vows.
Sooner or later, poetry defeats the liar.
There are no gray flowers.
You planted a wild rose bed in my garden.
We discovered in our forties
we were distant gardener cousins,
our grandfathers were brothers.
We were Great Depression grandchildren,
our kin left behind in Lithuania murdered
for the fifty or sixty pleasures
murdering can bring. Family resemblance?
In our chins a certain courage.