The Dying Poet

A transparent glowing-blue romantic poet reenacting his death again and again: lying and sweating, rolling over and over, swooning and dying plus subsequent death rattle, all as if he were in bed, though he’s hovering three feet over the shallow snow of a starlit aspen glade. Is it a sign? Perhaps. I don’t need to tell you that you’ve already passed the anniversary of your own death in some future hold-out in the mountains. But so what. Poets die all the time and does their consciousness hiss any less? That you’d so charm, so alarm, so bereft the dragon-world of all its hundred eyes only to die; that you’d die because of poetry. But under the crystalline nicks of the cold sky-at-night, the young poet dying there in the clearing, the mood’ll be a little more maudlin: for isn’t it a bit ostentatious, a bit too histrionic to die so that your poetry might live? I mean isn’t writing any poetry at all, ever, already overwrought?
 


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