Not much to preface here other than to say that I came across this poem, a while back, in the first few pages of Martha McPhee's 2006 book, L'America. The poem's author is McPhee's husband. Although I haven't read the book, I thought the poem quite compelling and I thought I'd share it.
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To an Unknown Poet, Dead at 39
Phil Perelson, 1956-1995
Love, it seems, when all is said and done,
kept you (maintained, withheld) indefinite.
In bits and pieces you offered your Te Deum.
To disappear was your "natural condition,"
but what to keep (guard, record) against the infinite,
when love, it seems, when all is said and done,
(so utter, complete) so obliterates someone?
Your "Five Keys to Anonymity," the ball & chain habits?
In bits and pieces you offered your Te Deum.
I still say "you," a mistake I see, for the third person
holds you (faithful, spellbound now) separate--
love it seems, when all is said and done,
need not answer back, or get a word in
edgewise, or feel at all compelled to speculate
in bits and pieces. You offered you Te Deum,
and what remains? What space along what margin,
what wisp in a rented room, what scrap, however delicate?
Love, it seems, when all is said and done.
In bits and pieces, you offered your Te Deum.
--Mark Svenvold
