What to Do with a Dead Friend
He keeps intruding sharply in my mind,
My heart, and dreams. No, more in reverie
Than nightmares, which is how dreams are defined
Now. Visions which come floating back to me
In daylight hours—reminding, say, of his
Guitar and nails—compel a singing gasp.
His Sabbath evening stance, wrists raised high, is
Alive with meaning still. His voice’s rasp,
Too much like Dylan’s, made the song he wrote
To set my poetry about him more
Real somehow, as if God’s breath had a note
Of gravel in it in creation’s roar.
That melody, long lost, consisting of
Slight fragments, echoes now in lieu of love.