When the wind died, there was a moment of silence
for the wind. When the maple tree died, there was always a
place
to find winter in its branches. When the roses died, I
respected the privacy
of the vase. When the shoe factory died, I stopped listening
at the back door to the glossolalia of machines.
When the child died, the mother put a spoon in the blender.
When the child died, the father dug a hole in his thigh
and got in. When my dog died, I broke up with the woods.
When the fog lived, I went into the valley to be held
by water. The dead have no ears, no answering machines
that we know of, still we call.
— BOB HICOK, the author of the forthcoming “Elegy Owed,”
which includes this poem This appeared in the NY Times Sunday Review, December 16, 2012. It can be viewed better there.