Fragments in Search of Him

Megraw, beyond just memory, haunts five hard decades. The "hazel eyes, the perfect teeth, the preppy suits, the ease, the careless conversation, the impossible glitter" survive as simply "FRAGments."

The search is unending. "[Here. Oh. Sorry. No. Sorry. I am very sorry.] Deceased." A Friday morning phone call in 1982 and the concluding ["There. JUST . . . seed"] are vivid testimony to the poet's powerful but largely fruitless task of "deconstruction."

On the other hand, this book-length poem is a window onto the world of an artist who is facing his waning years, the very gift itself (he is 67) which made life, and death, amenable to any kind of graceful negotiation.