This is an elegy for Frank Conroy
who was the director of the Writers'
Workshop for a long time and who died in the spring.
It's called "April Death".
Spring morning profusion is not the worst of grief.
Declamatory for severe bluster, low fleets
of Scylla and breeze.
And the owls are not the worst of grief,
or the car broke down, or walking into the office,
ash everywhere.
The worst of grief is not sitting alone
or sitting in a crowd in your good clothes
listening to the flowing people.
The plastic plates hold up the canopies,
the women in spring dresses.
It's not like everyone had to wear black.
It's not like it wasn't expected.
The worst of grief is not the next day or the day after that.
Cat vanish, then come back.
Nick, scheme, vanish.
The worst of grief won't be summer clamor
of lawnmowers, nebulas of invading ant,
light after it bounced off water.
The worst of grief is time becoming a winner.
Worse grief, worst of grief is incomplete.