EASY 

                                                      Through my hands' violet shadow, your body

                                                                           dead on the bank, was an archangel, cold--Lorca

  

Warm    and rising       from leaf-printed sheets

you take my green hand white at the pith

lean the other on a shaft of sunlight

and we walk the easy path   to a clearing

where your old office stands

 

we enter the conference room

the six black chairs of the men

you exhorted      are still pushed back

as they left them to go do

and the long blackboard

bears your old equations

the elements they refer to

come from the slate like juice

or sift in powder to the carpet

again you watch me play

with the ancient adding machine

 

a little further along

under pines filled with newly-freed birds

we come to a hall of sober-suited men

I lead you    faltering    to the stage

where from your mentor     long dead

you receive a lifetime achievement award

though you have your whole success story

to recount with perfect recall

the force of your gracious silence

causes a bouquet of roses to appear in your arms

 

again into those sunrays

with hot centers and cool skins

and we find ourselves    soon enough

on a makeshift football field

I'm running for a pass

which you deliver perfectly

but instead of the football

I receive you in my arms

 

and I lay you back down on the bank

I kiss you     you're cold