Red Epic/Descent

In a matter of weeks, they dropped off

The earth, two loops that had not

Crossed paths in my mind.

That’s the way poets go:

They drop upward, lifted on

Iambs. Loss feels like a cork

Popping, lines shoot like helium

Into the atmosphere, too young

Too vibrant, too many more

Lines to go—we cry.

Don’t misunderstand

The ebullience of these lines—

They are filled with gratitude

And elegiac waves. It is always

Too soon to lose a poet.

Montreal, June 2025