As I often do when reading Bob's work, I have an imaginary conversation with him. Here is what I heard when working on a poem he started in 1975 and subsequently revised several times. A copy of his 1998 version of it appears here. –

Tim: (reading the original poem) The irony is that this poem does not feel entirely finished.
Bob: Nothing in this world is ever finished.
Tim: What was the main idea you wished to convey in this poem?
Bob: It was an autumnal poem about evanescence. It focused on some personal experiences of parting and the break up of an intimate relationship.
Tim: Those who don't know you personally won't be able decipher this poem. I would like to offer one possible transpersonal reinterpretation of it:


A Finish: A Brumal Ode




Rust-colored leaves are falling
down to earth as twilight-lit clouds
sail eerily through dark skies
then passing into silence

Frosty hibernal nights
seem to sleep in this frozen stillness
as ice crystals form
in the frigid air

During such hours of gloom
old klaxons of fears
reverberate through the sable skies

They ring blatantly as
turbid recollections reawaken:
arousing bevies of breached hopes
and insolent, insipid intoxications

They revive memories of youthful indiscretions
and foolish, fraught frays

Years later,
finally learning how to breath softly
I rest near at the outskirts of Boston
then sigh as the dank, chilly air
forms ghostlike wisps around my breath


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