by Greg Hall 1946-2009
(to whom FA Nettelbeck has dedicated our next issue)

In most of these pages
the only thing left even vaguely gold
continues as a careful harmony
my fingers and the searchings of my heart
describing the unheard answers
a man who answers
questions like yours…
Much has vanished—
The clamor and the poison,
the usefulness of further transfusions,
the possibility of self-defined grace…
Still, a certain connection
to those who were injured
falling from horses
and to those who were compelled to sing
because the world was suddenly taken over
by robbers and thieves—
And because the ocean
answered every question
left unsolved by the wind and the night.
Although in page after page
my losses grew
something else also grew—
Now I can feel
what I was trying to say
and from these failures
something green and unbroken
is rising and running towards the shore—
Inside these shards of feeling
lost nations and lost wars
that which was deathless inside you
was addressed by what was deathless in me
and for those who can’t believe in death
I recommend you go find
some American poet
who can be
ironic
about
Love