It was a privilege to listen to you
weave words like a Mayan pattern
revealed deliberately,
precisely,
ingenuously.

One poet
enviously observing a master
twisting yarns into a phrase
that left me swooning
with the precise conveyance of a thought,
a memory,
an idea.

Clamoring to absorb it
while not missing the next delicious line,
and the next.
And now to learn that you are gone,
Steve Kowit,
knowing I will not happen upon a reading
where your nostalgic New York Jewish accent
is unabashedly undressing
that which was previously unnoticed,
for any audience fortunate to savor
and some who will secretly strive to emulate…
That is a disappointing way to start a Friday
called Good.

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