This morning your heart stopped working.
They phoned me first –
My old address card was in your pocket.
You were wearing the suit we found
Together in Chelsea, the grey flannel,
Rien: You always said to me,
‘Why don’t you stop writing poems for a while
And tell me a story?’
At first I thought I would cry to death.
When we met I loved you and wrote about you,
And never stopped.
They were all about you –
Even though we went away from each other
Into many worlds.