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tribute to tim murphy

Len Krisak



      He spoke a curt Dakota tongue,
      The way he wrote a poem—
      Without restraint, with no embargo
      But the meters that he’d loved,
      And by which he’d been moved
      Since he was young
      And far from home.

      The proud full sail that sped his Argo
      Rode the Great Lakes and the Keys.
      His ship was verse, its rhymes his cargo.
      The Caribbean birds,
      He brought down with his words
      Alone. Then, always home to Fargo,
      Where the geese wrote moving Vees.

      As he became the stricken wraith
      He ended as, he dreamt of dogs,
      The Great Plains, and Key Largo,
      Writing his hunter’s logs,
      And claiming once again his faith.

      In all his life: the love
      Of verse, the depth of his devotion
      To the prairie, sky, and ocean
      He never tired of.

      I pray the God that Tim
      So loved will welcome him.