for Marna Scooter Cascadia and John Fox
John and I ordered two slices
and a raspberry soda each.
We ate and took turns reciting
snips and strophes within easy reach,
chuckling, focusing or sighing
to fit the words, until our speech
joined together at Innisfree.
We chanted that secluded beach
into being. John beamishly
coaxed in Yeats’ cat, Minnaloushe,
who puzzled the moon, far and wee—
and so we came upon Cummings
hiccupping that typography
over our paper plates and crumbs.
We stood up. It was time to teach
of what had passed and what would come,
how poems make a honeycomb.