ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS
Sequence: 7
SUGGESTION
Let the poets die
spiraling in their heavy overcoats
down from some built miracle
above the heads of men
or in their beds
blanketed with age
and infirm but
sending their living part
upward passing
but never intercepting
the poets' bodies falling
Let them select death
as a stanza to be filled
with muttering
which is almost words
or once was words
Let them look up
or down once twice
the look that precedes us
everywhere we go
search of landscapes
for old gods plea
for money arrow
of desire
Let them feel the dry itch
in the throat fame waters
but never satisfies
like death the
distinguished thing
the last word
closing the door
on fingers that held the pen
and steadied the paper