In memoriam, Adam Zagajewski (June 21, 1945-March 21, 2021)
Cool as the breeze, spring
comes and proves the proven
blank which was sorrow
a turbulent need, a healing.
Who am I kidding? To say “spring,”
and to say so on the front steps
just after noon in the bright cool of the day,
is a form of dissolution.
How have I arrived at that?
Your death is only two weeks old, sudden
and tender as the buds on the firethorn
returning, and an old siren sound
carrying on the breeze
between two finches darting
through shattered power lines
cements a kind of comfort.
I accept this. These creosote
tears you must’ve seen on a Kraków
statue streaked with rain. What arrives next
is the marvellous phrase
“half sea half land”
(not yours but close), marvellous I mouth
before I digress,
and then zoom away to teach them, Adam,
your “To Go to Lvov.”
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