Ted Joans just ran past the café window,
where I wrestle with a piece on language,
and how poets speak to each other
in a secret code. He was back
from beyond the grave,
his eyes excited, and wild
with bright delight.
He was alive, man;
I tell you he was
alive!

I think he had fresh news
from the afterlife to share with us.
He had some Truth to tell us
of his visit there. And he was young
again, he was in his black prime,
his beard the beard of a younger man
again. He wore his poet’s black beret,
and he ran past my window, smiling;
running fast towards another future;
running back towards his birth.