An excerpt from his poem in DEAR DAVE, 25
In 1979 a woman died in Mexico
while going about her day.
Adela Legarreta Rivas, a journalist preparing
to celebrate the publication of her latest book,
had just left the beauty parlor, blonde hair
shining like Tippi Hedren's Marnie,
nails scarlet as the lining of an opera cloak,
when her path intersected with the trajectory
of a snow white Datsun.
A bright spring day in the Federal District,
men in shirtsleeves and women
armed with flowers.
La primavera had arrived,
along with 'that ruffian Death'
making his daily quota, counting coup.
Undone so many still,
ante and post meridiem.