NMC notes the parallel death of Earl Scruggs, causing one to ponder the aesthetic juxtaposition as well as to wonder whether the angel of death took the wrong Scruggs.
... 3QD posts a 1968 poem by Rich:
I Dream I'm the Death of Orpheus
I am walking rapidly through striations of light and dark thrown
under an arcade.
I am a woman in the prime of life, with certain powers
and those powers severly limited
by authorities whose faces I rarely see.
I am a woman in the prime of life
driving her dead poet in a black Rolls-Royce
through a landscape of twilight and thorns.
A woman with a certain mission
which if obeyed to the letter will leave her intact.
A woman with nerves of a panther
a woman with contacts among Hell's Angels
a woman feeling the fullness of her powers
at the precise moment when she must not use them
a woman sworn to lucidity
who sees through the mayhem, the smoky fires
of these underground streets
her dead poet learning to walk backward against the wind
on the wrong side of the mirror.