“Whitman, you once told me, is democracy on the page, messy
and imperfect as we are in real life, which gave you hope

that we would one day make real life true democracy, ripe blossom,
pollen dusting every moment and person, each scampering mote of light.

This is why as you lay dying, I read “I Hear America Singing”
and knew you heard every word and could feel my hand on yours

though you were already moving toward other miracles than this life.
A sunflower followed your motion and a yellow dog stood guard.

You, who lived the notion that the sun belongs to each and every one,
beggars, dreamers, kings, all. You who believed banks could have hearts,

for god’s sake! You have left it to us, messy and imperfect
as we are and will be, to keep to the work side by side

and as long as it takes, all the while singing of miracles
just as Whitman and you taught us to do.”