On death as it is to think
We should write a poem when thoughts
Of death crop up, or read poems,
Find poems, use old poems to brood.
Poor poems. Love and death they get.
Once in a while a small meal,
Hand-me-down scraps of well-known
Thoughts of all folk to chew through,
Dust motes from the day-to-day.
But, for the most part, it’s lust
And gloom—war, doomed love, and death.
I do feel bad. I do look
In with the rest of their kin
Who come with gifts of rare goods
Most poems can’t get in the jails,
Say, a “bag filled with fresh fruit,
A bar of soap, and a few
Tins,” that sort of thing. It’s not
As if we don’t love our poems,
But they have to serve their time.
At least these did not get death.
