lit

it is hard to guess

what dead friends

are up to. we try.

is jack still scat-

steering the night,

one hand waving

an onyx phallus 

overhead like a flare,

the other wild 

on the wheel

of the moon?

are james’ big sky 

country eyes still 

sharp as down

on the angel of shavano,

climbing her lone pine?

do you hear her

baby talking the

red wing blackbirds, 

cooing at that squirrel,

patiently snapping 

elm twigs

for the final fire?

or have they both

long ago flown the smoke,

mesmerized no more

by visible breath,

gone, swallowed up,

inhaled by light, each 

the pure silent word

they always were,

flint at the lips.

in loving memory of poets Laurie James and Jack Mueller