Henry’s Elegy For Stanley Kunitz Dead At 100

I saw Stanley Kunitz in his garden,
he was growing rocks and birds,
he pulled a word out of a worm’s mouth.

He looked to be a thousand years old,
he resembled a hunchback
or Yoda or my abuela.

He’s in the garden digging up poetry
like potatoes, like carrots, like stones
warm to the touch,

the history of the 1920’s still boiling
in his hands, still unchewed in his mouth,
the surrealists roll around in his eyes,

Vachel Lindsay, Carl Sandburg,
Kenneth Rexroth, all walk
in and out of his garden.

The Confessional poets make their confessions
to him and pass on,
the language poets utter nonsense and disappear,

the New York School of Poets closes,
the San Francisco School of Poets closes,
but Stanley’s in his garden,

digging up poetry, planting poetry.
Stanley’s in the garden ravishing Eve
and Eve is ravishing him.