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-- to Mike Reddy, on your death.
Walking in the park at the edge of a stream,
I saw a falling stone send one last ripple
against the pond's graveled edge. I heard
the sound snuffed out in the chilly breeze
reverberating with inarticulate moans
in the bone-dry sky and stolid air.
And I knew-- just knew-- you had died;
that I would dream a hollowed weight
pulling me down to the earth-- amid weeds,
gravel and the unanimous dirt;
That I would dive-- soiled and matted--
to find you among our ancestors too,
where the snake slithers and the earth quakes--
under the snarling apple tree,
Where Man was made and Christ quivered,
his face full of mud, sucking it up, just for us.
And now, you have followed. Beginning your descent,
you've left me alone, as I pick up my share,
too heavy for wiry wings and and soft-blown hair.
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