A few days back, I went one last time to Jimmie Walker swamp (where Rob & I lived together back in my twenties). His family and close friends had gathered to say goodbye. It’s hard to understand how someone you love is ashes in your hand. We stood at the edge of a clearing where, next spring, certain flowers might grow, and I read my favourite poem of his:

I am writing just because I can, the gift
of words being more than I can bear. The grift
of consciousness — that I don’t understand

either. I think I should wake up in the morning
with plans. Radio comes in on the ether, political
views, short humourous bits, weather, traffic,

poems of Levine, Whitman, Atwood, Sappho,
while I try to struggle into being, an awning
shading me from the hypocritical sun, a half

hangover, a sense of relief that dawn has come
again. I rehearse the pleasure and the pain, I take
coffee, two or three before I can rest. Then, again,

I turn to my work. Which is what? Breathing.
Loving against best evidence. Being, and seeing.

– Robert Allen, Standing Wave