In loving memory of Joseph Karasek
How long could this sort of thing go on?
I hear the old man’s voice haunting me
as I write—
the voice of a ghost
even when the old poet was alive
his voice that of a ghost.
He went on and on, died at 97,
his mind crisp as the icy bite
of a grim winter storm.
He used to tell me that the endings
of my poems should be the beginnings
of new poems.
How long could that sort of thing go on?
