from
kiln, crucible and stye
we are all
prodigal
sown through
teller and told
unpoemable
except for his name
because
I would tumble
to see a man
late twenties
thirty forty
smile
to have caused
the smile
knowing the obit yet daring to probe
seconds later concerning
the young man in the photo on the mantle
to be answered
with crocci
on the bank where the horses don't trod
and a late spring visit back home
New Brunswick
hoping for the last blooms
to be the sight over ashes
scattered
a scant year ago
with gracious gestures
they took, translated
money for flowers for a grave
gracious gift
from one whom the news reached late
as the distance of ripples disturbs
pictures
would not be the same
he's got to
walk it
from its banks
water washes through
boyhood trampled watershed
St. John Valley to Grand Lake
I know other ashes spread
at a bend in the Grand River
where one played as a child
near Fergus, another river system
another spring, another man
swinging on
unpoemable
dipping splash
accuse us of not growing up, if you dare
we can still pull the best stories
from each other's lips
between kisses
and the babble
of sighs
in the mud of our bodily fluids
growing wings to wash in dust and ash