(for Scott Hayden)
Scott,
When they
put you in the grave
your body will be old
and used up. The genitals
and butthole
nearly transparent
from good use.
The beaches
will draw no comparison.
The cigarellos
will sing a gay chorus of
summer nights,
bicycle chain grease,
the stickem of post-its,
good bread,
newly cut hair
blowing off the porch.
Your library will be canonized.
(Anne Rice will be appreciative
for the move from pulp
to bible sheaf) Your dim
reading lights will go bright.
Your staid governance
of the printed page will be rewarded
with bookboard,
Reives BFK,
waxed olive cotton thread,
Japanese paper,
and the sweet,
sweet letterpress.
Your legs will come together,
be forced into the casket,
be covered in black denim.
Letters will come from afar
speaking of twelve intense hours
in a coffee shop in Tempe and
beg to be put in the grave with you.
There will be a twenty-one LASER salute,
seemingly parallel,
but at the limits of noteworthyness
will be very far apart.
