For Robert Trammell, who gave, not giving in.

In Memoriam

we read Creeley in a circle,
back in February,
but circled you.

This is how we keep our friend's names.

Shin Yu will collect your poems,
so we came to scavenge.

Have at it, you said, bright
morphine eyes in the skull.

We sat down with you,
books collected, her
honor to you, chatting
about the new one you will finish.

Ben and David set
a bar-b-que lunch.

Everyone leaving
Adrienne lots of room,
hugging her in the space,
she having circled you all night as
morphine loosed you in its grip,

and you always

hospitable asked we stay.

Turning, we said, Tuesday,
see you Tuesday.

You, too loudly,
bright narcotic releasing,

I Love You.

Face blanked by the sharp bird
of your voice, I love you, too.

Shin Yu asked what can we do
Tuesday, what will we say,
or just listen in your hazy pauses,
or should we read The Book of the Dead
over him, to him, into him?

What should we do?

(You are dying, Robert.)

Your long silver hair,
your Glances you were writing
one piece a day, all you had
strength for, newly trimmed beard,
laid out in bed, laid out to be seen,
your eyes a lighter blue, already
other than themselves, belly
pregnant with everyone's future,
how you will finish the book,
and you will, by Tuesday,
so we can share.

I circle you with this poem

as you transpose into our circle's
filament, malleable, infinite.

Roam as you did, see Robert,
and Roxy, and those I don't know,
ghosts from The Quiet Man maybe,

sit circled in the desert,

chant poems to the stars who need time.

-- Robert Trammell, 1939-2006