No flat magazine eyes for you Jim Harrison but rather
two rounders—one clear while the other dreams both
bobbing in your river of Bandol and American Spirit.
How in the hell you lived to seventy-eight is a wonder.
My father made it to eighty. He obeyed all the rules of both
God and Man. Walked the line. You broke the lion’s share
and still got almost that far. Dad could’ve eased up, loosed
a notch here and there, but that was Dad, and that’s over now.
Time broke for me when my father died. I’ve been trying to
fix it ever since but I’ve decided you can’t. You simply go on.
You wrote letters—called them a song—to that Russian poet
who found the end of the clumsy noose. I sensed you of a
similar mood at that time, you in your Michigan farmhouse
with what you felt to be your nothing eyes and nothing heart
hurling poems at suicide on cold autumn evenings. It is near
spring here in Arkansas. But the evenings still hang on cold.
Your poetry publisher raised funds the other night to relaunch
another of your books. Your daughter graciously joined as one
of the guest speakers. Near the end of the evening, they played
an audio of you reading a couple of your poems. Tears pooled in
her eyes at the sound of your rascal voice. I clearly saw them on
Zoom but I know what to look for. She knows. We simply go on.
Yes, "simply go on".
So good to see your words again!
sigh..... I've missed your missives, sir. this was a tender, tough read. wow.