We first met at coffee and dessert:
“He is a fine poet, and an engineer by trade.”
In this morning’s paper I read one of his poems,
autobiographical, and one to remember.
I can see him in it, and also the rest of men
but for this:
He was the quiet one at the table,
yet his quietness had presence.
Attentiveness inclined his eyes and posture,
not necessarily as a learner.
He noted all that was said
but he didn’t often comment
and never intruded.
When he spoke, he was reserved, deliberate.
Here was authority
in his silence and his speech.
It comes out in his poem.
His are not the soft thoughts
of the speculative metaphysician.
They are irrelevantly relevant,
much as the metaphor is,
the unessential figure that becomes essential
resting finally on granite,
and as sturdy as a pyramid.
