To Kieran Kealy

Fifty-one days ago, a man dies
at eighty-four; it's nothing new.

You haven't even heard, 'til now,
by accident; you wonder if

he just lay down, gave up the heavy
weight of age. Oh, what matters now

what came before? The candle's out,
the fire lost. No, you are told,

there is no way to contact him.
You can't put a book in the post.