in memory of David Castronovo

It took only a little while to fold your books into mine.
I didnít accept so many, after all.

Some titles we shared, in the same editions
forty years old, or more.

Now no one looking at my row of spines,
would know which was yours and which mine.

Two falcons appear in the trees outside my window; the parkís promenade is their winter hunting ground.

In the afternoon, against the backlit river,
I spy oneís daredevil dive, its breathtaking stop.

The other perches on a branch above, waiting.
So I used to attend to your verbal gymnastics.

No one else could hold forth with such verve,
or dissect social mores with a finer scalpel.

It was like the falconís headlong plungeó
you kept your quarry in sight, and carried it away.