Fish and Cigarettes

Raymond Carver’s life
sprawled out and folded up
in a tomb of a book
volume after volume
of written
and re-written days

Autumn is closing in on me
and his fish
are swimming through the golden leaves
even though
he caught them years ago

His cigarettes are burning
blowing wisps of smoke in the cold afternoon air
even though
he died of lung cancer when I was two

And now
I have finished reading
what was to be read
and face winter without him

and yet
not without him