I never try to learn poems, but one that stuck in my head and has never left (the only one, too) is C.Logue’s untitled piece from his ‘69 collection “New Numbers”, it begins:

Woke up this morning / in the middle of winter / salt in my coffee / sweat in my hair, / the letter said *she’s dead / we know you will miss her* / woke up this morning / in winter in winter.

Whenever I think of poetry that has touched me personally, this is what comes to mind, and whenever I think of her, this is the poem I think of.

I carry it in nothing but my head, but sometimes, when I’m away from home, and find myself without a book to read or someone to talk to, I seek out paper and pen, and I write this poem out neatly, and read it over to myself, then leave it behind when I go.