All the poets die, one by one, words confirmed in alabaster, forms propped by shadows; they rocket to the sky on the strength of one last good word... somebody's swans. 5 Tarred by youth's pretentious trauma, I was too bad an imitator of pose or voice to have those heavenly feathers drop & stick. My tarred heart flubs in its rubble. England in its velvet weather; crushed heather 10 speaks in an ear that sleep has poured too full of books' windy memorials one time too many; overhead, a spearshead of geese release a wet whistling where the arrows rose and came to confusion as to rest.
From the collection "Red Bank"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.