Elegy For Hayden Carruth

The loneliness of the long distance writer,
the finish line always just beyond reach,

that line which you swish around
in your mouth like cheap wine,

you hold the glass in your hand,
vowels vibrating,

for a moment you see clearly
what theft on the other side takes place,

what atonement the tone accomplishes,
when imagination foregoes imagination.

The runner must invent the distance,
put up the landscape and the buildings,

paint the spectators and the non-spectators.
Oh, to wash my hand of endless words!