For Dead Poets That Yet Live
For Dead Poets Who Yet Live
The earth swallowed you—
spitting out seeded words
to linger like dusty books;
pages yellowing on rotting shelves.
Like your blood,
your ink well has dried—died.
Tomorrow
we go in search of mangers—seeking
the resurrected word—crying out.
Old poets—at last—die; but
their words are reborn
in the pregnant minds left behind.
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