In Memory of John Ford

John Ford is now before
in a downpour;
this lad of light,
invisible in night.
Undone initially by Lyndon,
sitting on his john,
and by the Viet Cong.
This grip slambamming
every ouch of aspiration,
or because of them.
This handsome broth of summer,
filling rooms
with such exuberance
that Tutsis learned the Hutu curtsy,
cut down rounding first.
Such generousness sundered
on the road that night,
the mix of Baltimore confession
and persistence in the face of Ks.
In one sense it is fitting
he should end alone
in darkness,
so our knowledge of it can be filtered
by his lilt, his lift, his Franz Kline leaps,
his markings, which are mansions
and de profundus ladders.
So, dear friend, forever young,
with eyebrows on your left side
and your nose and belly on the right, farewell.
May you find rest
on Abram’s breast and mercy.