The deadness of this thought is so obvious to me now.
Even if you reportedly died trying to call me,
I wouldn’t believe it, and it wouldn’t become me. The only
problem now is what to do with these poems littering the riverside,
all this energy spent, all this good rubber on wheels,
all this snow I arranged for you, all these thought processes.
Thank you again. I am confident that
there will be no further disturbing of my brain.