for alan
i could make a room holy out of anything earthly.
they don’t teach you that at princeton. they don’t say
what to say when that man makes his meticulous exit.
i thought he once wrote a poem about heroin. now i see,
it was more like intention. i said the emptiest possible
question. why? i know nothing except what i’ve learned.
big deal. you have to cure your lavender & fear
of any old thing at all, in this world, won’t save you
from it. turns out, tarantulas are bigger than you’d think
& smaller too, slower. also sweeter. i admire how little
he cared for what he didn’t care for & the length of his love
for an addict. he loved me. like a stranger. anyone aching.
i think i’d like to be so fearless, if not fearless, at least willing.
to hold onto my promises until they yield precision.
i don’t need the last laugh but i’ll take it. & any gift
i’m given that used to be living. i thread dried flowers
through a vertebra of an animal released. i’ll read that book
about the desert before he’s dead next time. it was a poem
called poem with a dozen more words. babe, he wrote—
and this is all—here i fucking come.