Grave by Hugh Fox

The frozen raven-clouds glazing over 
whatever inner-abyss visibility there might 
have been in the no-more-talking-about-writing 
studentless aloness, why do they always put the 
birth-death (Schubert -1797-1828, J.S. Bach – 
1685-1750) dates in the program so that vivace 
becomes obituary, wanting it to all be pizzicato 
polkaing instead of seventy-seven years of 
buddying, fathering, co-writing…all Richard 
Morrises and Curt Johnsons and Bukowskis 
gone, although Lifshin writes a never-been-busier 
letter today and the raven clouds for a few 
moments Radetzky march around my office- 
bedroom, then start thinking of everything that 
goes with me when I’m gone, bumming around 
in Venice, California, the other Venice, Blythe 
Ayne’s San Francisco stairs legs, Harry Smith’s 
Pulpsmith office next to City Hall in Manhattan, 
the Teotehuacan steps and Lake Titicaca, two hours 
meditation in Notre Dame, Paulo’s Bar and Grill in 
Florianópolis, cousin-, uncle-, aunt-, grandma-Christmases 
and Jesus’ body and blood host, remembering the Kaddish dead, 
Avinu Malkeinu, Our Father, Our King, fiddling on 
the resurrection roofs of seventy-seven (variation 
4 of Mirzoyan’s Theme and Variations — and 
he means it — GRAVE) century-years.