Kenneth Pobo


Sometimes death comes
on a white paper,
typed in bold print at the top, larger
than your name. A day later,

I think of you,
who I barely knew, tell my friend
who taught you first, become
the announcement. There are no

easy words, as any writer learns,
and you wanted to write. “Write
your heart out,” says Joyce Carol Oates.
Two people tell me you did—

and well. It’s night. And cold.
I hear snow’s coming, the sky’s
announcement of winter. We look

to spring, remember you.

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