<In Memoriam: Joel M Frye>


we spoke perhaps twice by antiquated conveyance,
actually exchanging voices, real words, not ionized,
we knew so little, so much of other, in modern ways,
where you can feel without touch, see with eyes closed,
scenting tthrough a wire, hearing the voices whenever
inhaling each’s poems, tonguing, tasting the words aloud

nonetheless, ‘tis nonsensical, that his earthly disappearance
should defect my affectations, with the chested sensational
of loss, deprivation,, that I am missing a poet, his insights,
his way of saying the same thing yet so differently which is
exactly what we do here daily, reheating upon rehearing

each others verbal notions of rue, worry, love lost,
abandoned faith, momentarily reignited, wondering instantly
and perpetually do words matter, just before we, with excited sighs
we pick up the unique utensil fluidity that allows this communication
of spirit; now it strikes me hard, it is his spirited humorous man-n’ere,in everything, that became has attached to me, consciously and consciencely, humanizing me by his good graces that cannot
now be refreshed
until I
reread
him
one
time
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