Lately I’ve been thinking, once more, about mortality. Two nights ago, I received an email from poet Robert Hogg, who lives about an hour away, in South Mountain, informing me that his cancer had returned, and that he was entering palliative care. All of this, as a response to my email about an upcoming event. He won’t be able to make it out. He wanted to let us know. “Tonight they tell us on TV which was really your home for nearly / forty years that you died in your sleep last night eighty-six years old,” he wrote, in the poem “Roy Rogers – a jazz elegy” from his chapbook
a short note on mortality;
a short note on mortality;
a short note on mortality;
Lately I’ve been thinking, once more, about mortality. Two nights ago, I received an email from poet Robert Hogg, who lives about an hour away, in South Mountain, informing me that his cancer had returned, and that he was entering palliative care. All of this, as a response to my email about an upcoming event. He won’t be able to make it out. He wanted to let us know. “Tonight they tell us on TV which was really your home for nearly / forty years that you died in your sleep last night eighty-six years old,” he wrote, in the poem “Roy Rogers – a jazz elegy” from his chapbook