"I was a shy, awkward sort of a boy and my fathers frequent absences from home, along with my hero worship for him, made me even shyer."

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This poem is one of a series, all of them elegiac in intention, and subject to the strange forces of mourning that let loose illogical developments, into impossible configurations of thought. The poem is built of non-sequiturs, because that's what's left in the wake of the death. We cannot follow the dead, whether they are persons or ideas. Instead we remain, but in a situation that, in their absence, makes no sense.

— Lyn Hejinian