The miracle of him,
of earth itself where he lived
among the glitterings,

lemon lilies --
fallen goldfinches
in the dusk,

but the black wings came
too soon. What other way is there
to get across?

Build something,
the hammer in your heart-sized fist --
finch on its nest,

patches of black, small
windows of light. Dark closes.
It was there in your poems.

If poems only
had a Caribbean home
under last moonlight.

Sunny dandelion,
mowed down too soon in May...
tears and daffodil.

Limp streaks of yellow
gather inside earth's black home,
a glimmer of light,

green fuse through ground,
song lifts echo,
solving tomorrow and tomorrow

as forsythia
hides swollen from sparrow
then casts itself again

eternal in poetry,
its literal state,
winged flower of night.

Silent and dark,
the room where we knew you,
brown eyes luminous.

He never saw that
moon like a big cherry bloom,
his home incomplete.

Walking tall across
Harrisburg parking lot
--clear eye,

Wassergass, Spring, pond
fat with frogs. Mockingbird trills
his song: gone, gone, gone.

Midsummer morning,
a night blooming cereus
closes at sunrise.

White fragrance stays,
a moon flower's
cactus of memories.

Bitter chicory,
late daisies for cracked blue vase,
nights talking with God,

a whisper of names
summons the seven angels.
Blue air lifts black wings.

As day folds in its wings,
in silence we do what we must,
eyes turned upward.