The first thing to learn is “no corpus delecti”

and one who masters that may enter folklore.

Decades ago, Weldon Kees took his poetry and art,

drove them to the height of Golden Gate Bridge

and vanished into the fog of legend.

Not a word found—but a car still running,

the driver door left agape, the black space inside

looking like an open mouth about to speak,

all the words still infinite with possibility.

In our time, Daniel Simko taught me the tale

of Weldon Kees, Rimbaud, and Morrison.

He said Kees had a good death.

When I asked why, he paused and said,

because it kept everybody guessing.