I'm drinking the third mug of Folgers
at 3.20 am, and "working on poetry"
by reading it: Dylan Thomas, Marilyn Hacker,
and you. Often I wish you were more prolific
of poems and e-mails, but your silences
make me cherish your words all the more:
words that live, that help one to live,
that gladden and fortify, noble and pure
as candlelight vespers at St Ann's chapel,
wiser than politicians, kinder than a blanket
knitted over long months by a loved one's hands,
calm as a cloister in this loud leap-year.