for Tomaž Šalamun

I wish I had some stories.

Or even just one, really.

Though I suppose there are

plenty of stories in the world.

It’s the day after New Year’s Day

but we are not in New Zealand.

I fell asleep to the tune of

an old Marx Brothers movie.

But what was I saying here?

Something about your life.

I did not know you very well.

We talked poetry, I believe.

I can think of a small reading

at a very bad Italian restaurant.

And can hear your voice, but

cannot think of what you said.

Robert called you the saint

after he had found his glasses.

The statue of the saint inside

the church on a winter’s night.

People meet people every day.

This is a remembrance to a saint

with glittering eyes and glasses

from a stranger, or damn near.