After Reading Bill Holm, Whom I Never Met
Sitting at my desk reading Bill Holm, lamenting
the fact I can never write him a letter to say
I’d rather die than to think of a world without his poems.
for Hell’s sake, what am I supposed to do with them now?
I can paper the back bathroom with them, paint them
over with that shade of blue Becky likes so much,
but what good would that do? It’s not the same blue
as the open skies of Minnesota or Iceland, no way
to get lost in the horizon or decide on a stand of trees
in which to sit down and get drunk. So, what now?