That phrase--we are your hauntings--from your poem is so true of **you**. I thought that when I was reading about him, thought of your stories and poems with dybbuks and golems. You are like a ghost radio on a numbers channel, and he's the numbers giver. [Okay: you are much more than that, too--but one aspect of you is a haunting of him.]

Between which languages, which loves, which politics, which names? Whose voices did you call into your throat? Salt mills, prayer books, soldiers’ camps, board meetings, pages upon pages of questionnaire hidden like a genizah while the century moved over your memory and left your shtetl hauntings to speak for you instead --loved that.

I liked this portrait of him. I don't know if it's frequently reproduced or not...