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there is a poet
in the cemetery

as if
on cure

a dark turn

for is it not
this literary machine thing
devolved to pen
and paper

life’s deepest resistancew, death’s
finest achievement?

I mean — check out these stones: so many have poetic couplets
some of them epigraphs
no space for odes or even sonnets
still less
Iliad or Odyssey

this I muse whilst
graffiti on the chapel wall
pictures Sam Beckett tumbling
from birth to grave
signs too
that Nietzsche is back
back with braveface to live a return

Sun going down: convenient metaphor that
for how everything recycled

like these very words, some of them
(like “Caesar”, “dust”) dug out of their fertile grave
back from the worms that
we imagined owned them
still something of that a little less than
ghost attached that once
we might have given a name to and
that name Shakespeare’s

inadequate, not doing justice
especially to such names which
deserve not
to be dropped

so I
break that solemn wall

do you
openly address

restore with
heart and
with light

the death and life in all I have said
need your insight to connect

together to make
this accomplishment
(small small jewel being
our return)