This afternoon Tomas Transtromer and I

by Kenneth Pobo

This afternoon Tomas Transtromer and I
watch the wind make art
from leaves on a roof. We have
no language barrier—Death puts

all words from every tongue
into a sack that it shakes. We grab
what we need, understand
each other well. Even a tornado
is a kind of poem, beauty
and harm in a spinning cone.
Wind takes form. I wonder
what conversations Tomas and I
will have when I tiptoe from this life
into Death. Will things change?
Surely they will. Change

rents Death a house that needs repair.
It stands, even shines,
in the dark.