Elegy for Tamara

facts are the meat 
of robots but robots 
can be selective facts 
always subjective like blundering
into rumination of a lost 
friend Tamara liked the tithonias 
but I should 
have planted more there 
is no ceiling for AI 
because it’s 
the floor how 
every billboard 
in SF makes 
me unforget
every department 
meeting over a screen 
in Boston we had lots of sun 
we were young 5 to house 
in a row of houses 
in Eugene a lawn to nap 
on bikes for quicker trips 
to the river 
to the woods
no one carried 
a phone Elizabeth 
had to wait 
all day to tell 
me that Allen
Ginsberg died my hands 
still dirty from an afternoon 
stocking records we took 
a bike ride 
I read my
Howl rip-off 
poem to a stand 
of trees maybe 
later Elizabeth played 
Joni Mitchel on guitar 
her voice I still sometimes 
miss today its tulips 
everywhere & find 
myself wondering how old 
Tamara would be if she 
hadn’t died the memory strung-
out from years in between death 
courting sudden to see pictures 
of Elizabeth, Amanda, Kim
myself & Tamara—glory Eugene
daze each lost in other each 
lost in ourselves green 
stems extending ever sunward 
that particular green 
the grass gets at 3 o’clock 
sun boys in bunches some 
of them in temper 
tantrums girls all cupped 
hands & whispers lame 
thing about parenting 
is how easily stereo-
types are reinforced like do 
boys really 
behave like that
or have I 
been conditioned 
to expect that wait 
I was a boy once 
but neither I nor 
the robot remembers Elizabeth 
is absent from scene a coast 
in Oregon me standing 
top of a hill wasn’t Dave 
there Tamara on her side 
half in sand
her face split 
in laughter a picture 
remembers what
I forget 
I open 
an AI browser
type in 
memories of 
a boyhood
naturally it’s all 
gibberish still exercises 
in futility
can refocus
the eye out 
the window delicate
line of cream yellow
Tamara it’s Spring
again, let me 
tell you about
the daffodils