still working out the act of making,the process,
gerald.remember when you taught me
how to carve a villanelle?form as curio &
artifact,like string quartets or rock
n roll,but now we have this pencil,all we have,
this scrap of hope that somehow something
from your teaching will return.maybe a dirge,
a memory of your face,a pale rider on a yellow
horse,remembering how pretty you were.your death
can't be contained inside a villanelle,or any poem.
here lies my friend,my teacher,whose last words
were a muffled laugh,a whimper of despair,
an ironic 'oh god' like a prayer.
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