Hayden Carruth... by Brian Morrisey

you died
and there are no more angry letters
or poems about flowers
in the New York times
thrown upon this grave of

blood-scathed corrupt war
we know today

there are no cigarettes lit
by late night jazz saxaphones
under the poetry

I am writing a poem about your frozen hands
scraping the windshield of that old ford pickup
in rural Vermont while chewing skoal
and quoting Li Young-Lee
because I too write from experience

or the nervous twitch in your stutter
from being so alone
or whiskey by the fire
how it burned us in the end
but I will still sit here
with your spirit
and letters to Jane Kenyon
and the cancer in her step
and taking adrenaline of fear
like a salute
to living through today
even if we’re dying

while Donald Hall writes about
a leaf falling gently
upon the broken promise
of a scared husband

I will piss on the latest issue
of POETRY magazine
because Christian Wiman
murdered your ideal poem
and only a New Englander
can make such a bold homage
in your name.