"from" Clayfeld s Farewell Epistle to Bob Pack
Beneath this mellow harvest moon,
I can still picture you a boy content
just fishing with his father from a ledge
above a foaming stream. The flailing trout
you caught is packed in gleaming ice;
the pink stripe all along its side
is smeared across black shiny dots
that seem to shine with their own light.
I m sure that you can picture me
with equal vividness, and though we re not
identical, there is a sense
in which I am inventing you
as much as you re inventing me.
In "Clayfeld Holds On,"...