For Thom Gunn

The glittering eye, the jaguar tattoo,
Gone, but clear in the mind, memory’s riddle—

After pressing so many poems on your attention,
This one will go unread, with your name in the title.

I’m using your bleak, if not comfortless
Conception of the afterlife—oblivion.

Though you may recall, to your chagrin,
My spiritual hopes leaned to the Rilkean.

Scanning your hundreds of poems, I’d claim a vital
Force remains, though it may be

Unwilling to read through another elegy.
You can’t save me from an awkward foot or phrase.

That is certain. Only your exemplary
Work—the distillation of your days—

Remains as guide and model. It’s enough.
If not, you shrug, that’s, as poems are, tough.