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