A Poem For Toney McCrann by Rich Wyatt

"The Soul, Addressing Itself, Wanders Around Right After Death" by Rich Wyatt

On so much of this ground you'll
find what the wasp buried, not much,
and the voice-bearing others whose names are lost. Who cares.
Hand me that spoon and that fork and we'll dig
for an hour, evening on our shoulders like an incentive,
a habit, the many molecules called stars
searching out a body under and over the always-black sea
we can't even now grasp like water from a rushing stream. Go
on and mention me to your friends, you'll have a time
explaining the lilac bushes so briefly attentive,
the season, too, over in a minute.
I stopped once and had coffee in Nick's, on 3rd Street.
I remember everyone's face there as my own, as I tapped
my fingernails on the window next to the booth, out of nervousness.