for Bill Dickey

The strength of souls hung out dries up the sun.
Royal bodies like Bill’s, are like manly logs lit up
for Yule— dying at noon into the gold of day.

Wisdom’s frame shrunk, a vine bereft—manhood’s
reach wilted, a leaf released— wild one’s branches
limp— mustard-colored seed—emblem of his faith.

What faith persists through the thinness of plague?
Round mouth— vain to the end, yet fully in charge
Brought from the jaws of death more than once by

The sense of humor from his friends— last encounter
with him Valentines Day—in that rose-colored cashmere
jacket reading his poems, so well near his port-a-potty

— His poems finished. Blared stunning intelligent blue
eyes into day dreams— believing the Catholic
Church had forbidden him to write.

Yet, he died at Beltane— discerning time of year—
full equality of light, dark— writing today six months
later feeling for him.

The great equality of dark, light— was he the saint,
like my two cousins, or will we ever know?