For Walt, with Reverent Indifference
Poems, vaguely wafted in night air, uncaught, unwritten,
Which, let us go forth in the bold day, and write.
For him I built eloquent houses out of leaves of grass;
I breathed his ears full of poemets and indulged him with dribs of melodies,
Scorched the grass around our heads into ambiguous brown halos –
Young man: I think this face of yours the face of my dead Christ.
I immortalized his death, scattered ashes to the wind and dissolved them
In luminous afternoons; or perhaps I had only dreamed he was dead.
For him I waged war on death with a welter of discordant sounds,
Staked tenors against sopranos; silv'ry flutes rivaled ardent organs – tumultuous
And uncontained harmonies that bled into a thousand midnights and dreams.
For him, I invented eternity.
