To Jeremiah Young, who died before we met, I think

 

to jeremiah, who died just before we met, i think

(a poem by a faust)

a friend of a friend 

upon whom did depend

all manner of things now set free

a few days ago through 

some people i know

wrote some words that managed to reach me

after he died, 

after he died --

between that moment and this one he died --

everything strange no doubt rearranged

but how could it be, to me

how is it this way for me?

that each separate word nevermore to be heard

as should be, said by him, properly

now only in silence 

in the mind of a stranger

speaks 

as soon enough mine will, 

for me.

Death sucks.
Be seeing you.