I awoke from a bad dream with these lines drumming in my head long after he died. I mean Carl Weissner. A staffer here recently found them written down among drafts of unfinished poems.
When I showed the lines to another friend of his, Gerard Bellaart, he kindly made a card for a limited edition. The photo shows Carl’s eyeglasses, Mole notebook, and papers on his kitchen table the night he died. His death was completely unexpected, leaving all his friends dismayed and unspeakably saddened.
POSTSCRIPT: Jan. 24, 2022 — There he was again in a dream last night. We are in some restaurant, a San Francisco dream. He gives me a manuscript to read on elegant Mary Beach / Claude Pélieu stationery with raised lettering in delicate type on the letterhead. He’s terminal. We both know it. He’s being objective about it. He indicates, somehow without words, not to get worked up about it. Take it as it comes. Happens to all. End of dream.
