That saturnine, mercurial Irishman
would sit in bars and scribble lines
on beer-mats, not bothering tra-la to scan
mechanically or fret about his rhymes.

His ear pitch-perfect, he would dive
into   

the   

flux   

with   

gusto   

and   

delight
in revelations of the cave
while ironizing Plato’s radiant light.

Who else comes close to coming close
to showing what a lyric might amount to,
a miracle of freedom you can parse,
elegance topped by sprezzatura?

Who else can match his dash
or darkness? Before Charon sticks
his oar in (‘if you want to die’),
I’d wish to praise his maker with words tricked

into   

place   

like   

a   

cab   

that   

finds
its destination in a room
that   

holds   

reflected   

doubles,   

or   

like   

minds
kindling   

a   

shared   

thought   

into   

flame.