Alighting on his umber
coffin, we marked his memory,
shades of amber brown, of goldenrod,
shades of crimson-on-rust.
Our pupal wings
flickered eulogy in the
mid-morning air. We knew
nothing of his literature,
his Pale Fire or Pnin.
Nothing of his family,
nothing of his teachings, nor
his stratagems of chess. But we knew
the kiss of his
dark-salmoned skin. Our limbs
etched the whorls of his
fingertips, traced
the lines of his palm.
We knew the thin texture of his
breath upon our wings. He shared
with us the subtleties
and depths of hue and
alphabet, the complexities
of synaesthetics. He taught us the
image of O, bone-white
ivory and mingled
seashell cream;
of S-and-C, azure
and mother of pearl
merging with
powdered blue;
of W, lilac
and lavender-rose
contrasting dull olive. And
now, after his passing,
he continues to teach,
layering us with the
charcoals, the midnights, of grief.