Bonne Chance, Bob.

Good bye to the harbinger of simple turn of word, mono syllable, noted simple, shuffled voice more of story than poesie for the duration of his readings, former rogue and always a romantic. Believing in the succession of loves following the ache of a love lost. When Creeley was still a smoker another poet wrote of his pocket-to-pocket searching for cigarettes. Then the pocket-to-pocket for the light. Then the pocket-to-pocket for another. Then the pocket-to-pocket for another. Creeley always obliged my camera and never ever can I forget the reading I gave at Central Park Grill with Creeley in attendance, his flushed Dig It following my words.
Last night, with Cheryl and Liz, drank toasts to Bob while Liz's cut flowers scented the room. Where was he, where is he and the notation that some lives lost are more of a loss, truly, than others. Some expected. Some sudden and, despite the age, the loss of that presence in the physical world is big.
Liz brought out her Creeley-signed books and in one I opened to his poem beginning Death be not proud. Goes on of loss and look in mirror.

The other deaths this week in news shadowed by the poet's.
Not to compare and contrast but that is the vrainess of Yours Truly, All Tomorrow's Parties.

Vrai Love.