He is dead, of course
by choice or circumstance
we all think we know.

I knew him as a rainbow
when I was young
and he was full of drugs

as I grew older, I did not know him
except as a crumbling edifice
made of laughter and forgotten
to the wind.

He is still dead, of course,
and I still do not know him
except as someone loved

by those who knew him
best and at his best
and those who knew him

not at all, except as an image
of a man who floated above us
like a red balloon

seen in the distance
seeming cheerful
being high so high and so alone