This might be said about the death
of anyone: that its quick memory springs from live mouths around a table
that someone is always looking at you when you bring it up, your tone forefashioned, grave --
an entourage frail as the body itself nods, and then a matter of drinking and eating
and for some, fucking. Because when bodies grow cold, the spirit rises and swoops
and while the finally sedate fall into flimsy gravity
others swivel and clutch. They insist on it.