for allen
that summer in the mansion on the hill:
you & Peter in spacious kitchen
fretting over chicken soup, seaweed, Tibetan tea,
the nightly readings—Chris Ide & I dashing thru
halls & rooms upstairs in our underwear, chasing each other
giggling rowdies rolling across beds
or wandering in the basement perusing huge library,
singing old Kerouacky Catullus Kit Smart
& Shakespeare’s sonnets aloud together—
you upstairs all night answering mail yakking long
distance scribbling surprised by visitors
as I lay in the next room & watched the million stars
fill the night over the flatirons, singing myself to sleep—
or that time in your apartment twelfth street I come
to read in your Brooklyn series—
racing to work to class to plane Laguardia taxi-dash
downtown in bright springtime exhausted—Steve showing
videos you at wailing wall & old Reznikoff
our shared love introduced by George Oppen,
steely-voiced compassion my reentry
into New York—gefilte fish, Peter & the Wolf
after everybody cleared out, you & I soft reunion,
both drained in crazed worklives, both sleeping
20 hours, waking together Saturday evening going out
bite to eat at Christine’s: NY Times, cabbage soup,
chocolate cake—a Danish family recognized you,
sent their kid over for autograph, you yakking
& drawing elaborate skull & stars & flowers personal
greeting with final pen flourish for their bright eyes—
friendly, welcoming the parents their first time in America—
or that summer where you’d injured thigh, lay naked
on floor your apartment Boulder as
young girl massaged pain spots, relaxed nerves
& we sprawled around you,
singing Campion & Dowland,
Steve as director who
gave us parts bass baritone tenor singing
again & again crooning to find
the shared voices in the dream—
poets coming & going, staying a time,
alreadys singing, singing deep into the Elizabethan night
as Boulder’s sirens shrieked
& traffic flashed beyond—
& in later years, both too busy, yet your call sped me to
buddhist retreat Yankee Springs
only 20 minutes from my home—
two afternoons scribbling notes together in lodge
as Gelek spun the word thru Gun Lake sunset—
or meeting backstage after Howl & Kaddish Ann Arbor,
too tired to speak, no need to yakk,
comfortable merely to sit an hour
in each other’s silent presence as
stage hands gathered props & instruments—
your kiss disappearing into the night your hand waving
pulling away—
& now, calling each of us before the press releases go out
generous gesture even dying
passing burden & light from Walt thru Williams you & Jack
thru those who remain
to new nippled generations
struggling even now to be born.