The poet’s demise

Domus - - POETRY -

these days, po­ems can smell the whiff of lan­guage’s demise but they never sense har­bin­gers of their own im­mi­nent an­ni­hi­la­tion

it may be that some find their life’s ful­fill­ment mak­ing po­etry in death

but I have never heard of any­one dy­ing while writ­ing or read­ing po­etry

O God of verse grant me a bul­let in the head while writ­ing po­etry or, should I be the only one to die let an ex­plod­ing bomb carry me away who else could be as for­tu­nate as I dy­ing in the act of read­ing po­etry

let the dark­ness and light be­fore me wink out with­out a fuss even as I turn a page

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