Rocked and lurched on my train ride
I saw a refinery's flame that reminded
me of you. It erupted in urgent flight
towards skies that divided

themselves geometrically on the sharp teeth
of the city. Leviathan smoke poured
from tall, blanched stacks like a beast
with flailing fins, and moored

its ash to darkening roofs. The glass
panes of the car burned with the ten-
foot flame enervated by gas
explosions. I thought of oxygen

causing violence. I remembered you
dying quietly. Confessionalism
was inconsistent with your
character; it usurped the rhythms

of the intellect, you said.
You preferred a cramped space where labors
like Hercules' were wrought; here's the bed
where you finally get rest. The neighbors

didn't know of your reputation. Your fame
never reached their attention. It was a small
literary fame, enhanced by death; you claimed
not to care that your glory was minimal.

No one, you said, can be expected to appreciate
the difficult thoughts tormenting a soul
who seeks a light, the right gate
to the most difficult thought of all.