Seven

(For a dead poet.)

I'll write a song for you, unrequited lover, seer of faces,
     orator, stranger, astronomer.
I'll stop you and talk to you when we pass someday in a field
     or in space or on some city street.

I'll think of you and mimic you and love what you love.
I'll ramble prosaically about this town, life, death, and our souls.

I'll wonder what you really mean when you send me lines
     of simple beauty, fiery passion, and political gusto.

I'll celebrate you in quiet times
     and privately worship you for freeing me
To write songs of you, and of love, and strangers, faces, and the sky.