drizzle into Lake Travis waters—Texas’ deepest, as waves of sadness ferry me,
my son Jason and your ashes, Geb. Along with Sophie’s, your Abyssinian playmate.
We sail remembering your Tibetan terrier mop and waggle beaching us for privy needs on Fisher’s Island. Almost stalling our catboat in riptides off Long Island’s race. . .
The wind builds, as your stardust and Sophie’s sink. Waves buck randomly—much
the way you yanked a leash. Reciting Walt Whitman, we add his music to the gusts:
It’s not chaos or death . . . It’s form, union, plan and eternal life. It’s happiness.

As in life Sophie, you slip
gently overboard with Geb,
fluid, full of Egyptian grace.
Like your embrace of a needle,
daily for two years, hydrating
the nape of your neck; the ease
of chest high leaps onto a desk
for your assistant editor post.
Dying, you eased away. Supple.
Warm. A wise, knowing light
in your azure eyes as they dimed.
Your Cremation Certificate asserts
in William Blake’s words:
Everything exists and not one sigh,
nor hair, nor particle of dust—
not one—can pass away.