(September 10, 1935 –
January 17, 2019)
When
a poet dies
words
drift,
milkweed
floss
on
an updraft,
white
bleeding to sky,
watermarks
waning
to
nothing, beyond.
The
hole grows.
Image
to hand to page,
liquid
through fingers,
raindrops
off a leaf,
ache
to ember, coal to ash.
Sifting
through cinders,
you
feel for warmth,
but
the unsaid,
ghosts
ephemeral.
All
that remains
is air.
Liza Carens Salerno
01/19/19