So Wise

for Andy

Last night I opened up Rilke

And found a photograph of you.

After considering the picture‑

A close‑up of your face, eyes shut,

Hands almost grazing your temples,

As if charming some future

From the heat of your thoughts‑

I re‑read the poem, about a woman

Who is slowly losing her vision,

How, on a walk, she falls behind

A group of her sighted friends.

By the end of the poem,

Of course, the illness radiates

In her eyes, set like glass jewels,

As her vision focuses inward.

To Rilke she is growing so wise

She will soon be ready to fly.

I looked at the picture again,

Into our living room behind you.

The occasion was my father's wake.

Tunelessly, you had led the party

Clowning around the piano

While I sat to the side,

Joyful the loss was now complete.

This was before forgetfulness

Relieved my joy.

Mostly the book stays shut.

What does a poet know of blindness?

It sharpened her other senses,

But death has blunted mine.

Your pose and his wake might

Lie next to each other forever,

In the dark, without embracing,

Like the picture and the poem,

Unread, unseen.