Stone through and through, it turns around the sun
every four years or so. It never had a name
before, and, named, it still goes round the same
unaltered. But our gazing has begun.
We do not pray. He would not want us to.
He’d mock perhaps, simmer in quiet rage.
His views set down quite clearly on each page.
To mourn him, we should read. It’s what we do
to keep him in our minds. It’s piety.
Authors still live, while read. We hear their voice.
This asteroid gives us a further choice
we speak his name aloud, watching the sky.
A better toast than whisky drunk in bars.
‘Take him and cut him out in little stars…’