the poet’s mortem

 

the poet’s mortem

tiptoe

through the flowers, the poetry 

of the dead ones, graven,

green, watered but bowed;

browned what bloomed,

the ones they anthologised,

the ones they strew before their

messianic arrival and their departure

in the gospels of the past. 

can we entrust these be a photo-fit 

of the real poet and the real meaning?

assuming there was meaning in their writing.

how can we remove today from the past?

the past from past lives?

i mean, come on, write something of yours,

try to envisage the future drawing you, when

you still have pockets full of touch stones,

fluff you wish burnt rather than displayed.

so how can we wear your coat?

how can we describe the weave 

when all there is is mothballs 

and camphorated memorabilia?

time being bottle bottomed and distorted,

the want to know what you do not want us to know,

but all we have is what you wanted us to know,

for you knew us as we do not know you.

you took your heart to your grave, 

and dig as we will,

all we find are bones.