You were a marvelous infant,
a golden Aussie egg,
your falsetto destined to saturate
fern bars worldwide. You grew
to hear yourself pour out doors
on Dodge City Drive, and your reverb
washed over the mermaids in Santa
Maria dei Miracoli. You said yes
to everything, a porous stone
in Eden, and poppies filled the sky
until it rained fields you cooked white
in a spoon over Zippo light.
Andy Gibb, you’re gone
from the radiowaves. You surfed
out of your skin and got caught
with Callisto (Zeus’s lover-turned-bear)
in the constellations: remote
echoes of earth that lack
the click of ursine claws,
Farrah Fawcett hair,
K-Tel’s soundtrack of “The ’70s,”
the halo of common air.