Tom goes by on his motorcycle.
I'd like to wave, but he's already disappeared over the hill. Tiny now … tiny Tom.
'Bye, Tom.
It's summer here, birds singing as the dawn expands from pearl gray to lemon yellow.
Dead poets show up at dawn.
Here's Miroslav, watching a spider build its web.
Here's Kenneth Koch, who died last week, sitting quietly, hands folded.
Here's Shahid, fixing his ghazals, obsessed with Kashmir, keeping suffering at arm's length.
Tom goes by on his motorcycle.