The Poem Addresses Ben Mirov in a State of Inconsolable Grief

The Poem Addresses Ben Mirov in a State of Inconsolable Grief

Are you out of control?
Are you driving through Napa
full of grappa? Driving a car
and driving a star
are almost the same
if you believe as I believe
the world is made of language.
Return to your bone.
Park your star in the garbage.
Go back in tide and climb into sled.
Try not to think about
Amanda's amputated nest
or the broom where Greg
cradled a nun in his hands.
What can you do but rake up next morning
and make yourself some legs?
If you feel butter, come back to me
or call your flutter.
There is never enough lime
with those you dove.
Snow what I clean?
Knife is short.

-- Ben Mirov