When a Friend (for Ellis Settle, 1924-93) - Stephen Dobyns

When a friend dies, part

of oneself splits off

and spins into the outer dark.

No use calling it back.

No use saying I miss you.

Part of one's body has been riven.

One recollects gestures,

mostly trivial. The way

he pinched a cigarette,

the way he crouched on a chair.

Now he is less than a living flea.

Where has he gone, this person

whom I loved? He is vapor now;

he is nothing. I remember

talking to him about the world.

What a rich place it became

within our vocabulary. I did not

love it half so much until

he spoke of it, until it was sifted

through the adjectives of our discussion.

And now my friend is dead.

His warm hand has been reversed.

His movements across a room

have been erased. How I wish

he was someplace specific. He

is nowhere. He is absence.

When he spoke of the things

he loved - books, music, pictures,

the articulation of idea -

his body shook as if a wire

within him suddenly surged.

In passion, he filled the room.

Where has he gone, this friend

whom I loved? The way he shaved,

the way he cut his hair, even

the way he squinted when he talked,

when he embraced idea, held it -

all vanished. He has been reduced

to memory. The books he loved,

I see them on my shelves. The words

he spoke still group around me. But

this is chaff. This is the container

now that heart has been scraped out.

He is defunct now. His body is less

than cinders; less than a sentence

after being whispered. He is the zero

from which a man has vanished. He

was the smartest, most vibrant,

like a match suddenly struck, flaring;

now he is sweepings in a roadway.

Where is he gone? He is nowhere.

My friends, I knew a wonderful man,

these words approximate him,

as chips of stone approximate

a tower, as wind approximates a song.