After Edgar Bowers I’ll go among the dead to see my friend. The place I leave is tranquil: the forest calms coastline as live anchors in the bluff and, stretching its indifferent gills, engulfs the cutting echoes of twisting car roads so that alone, in peace, I may drift off. I cannot go, although I should pretend, in mercurial rooms of memory, he stands as always: my wide-eyed ally. And yet the thought of going makes the trees wave, and eager leaves, like my silent sighs, shed over sea to join wind’s elegy.