they told me
“poetry is dead”
in hope that when I found it I might leave it in the grave
in hope that a journey might not begin
in hope that I was
and, dying, I found poetry between
where the azalea knots its white crown and drops
between a hole in sunlight and the moon, where
between the living and the dead
a broken vase of its ashes sift
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
they told me
“poetry is dead”
in hope that when I found it I might leave it in the grave
in hope that a journey might not begin
in hope that I was
and, dying, I found poetry between
where the azalea knots its white crown and drops
between a hole in sunlight and the moon, where
between the living and the dead
a broken vase of its ashes sift
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