May you walk alone wherever you're at. May you find Walt Whitman in the endless grocery aisles in the sky. May your books be read by children and not used for booster seats. May your poems be read by those you write about. May you walk, not run, in New York.
Summers are best there.
May you always be alive in your poetry surrounded by the Beat. May you sink into softness, protected by your feet. Also, may the lad say what needs to be said in the holy place of saying. May it be a starry night when you are gone. May your names be fully listed.