A different kind of Hemingway episode
after reading 'There Is Never Any End to Paris.'
For my friend and companion Bill Trussell,
1920-2009
Conditions for writing could not have been
more dangerous.
There was the year you died
and then another and another year.
Everything froze over.
Grief was deep and nothing seemed bound to
earth.
Whole hillsides came down in a rush.
I hardly wrote at all
but stars were close and very bright
lucent through the open window
as though death were normal and every day
without this desperation or desire.
There was wind too and rain
and much silence being solitary.
And all the time there were birds.
The trees full of them, and the garden.
Musicians in white ties, fiercely fast,
chatting, whistling, making passes at each
other
as though it were spring and not this depth
of winter
with life almost at standstill.
