Sweet

for Lynch

in a comedian’s dream where
there’s an eternal couch back stage
a party is carried with you
as large as grief and celebration
will get up and drag redolent goers
from their private booths without so much
as instructions, you have music in your head
that a community will gather to sing
i read backwards like magazines
memory is a ledger of goodbyes
when all i want is tales without caution
to line up along these winter streets
because there’s no vessel large enough
to hold all our notions of you