On the Passing of CD Wright

For JL and Georgia

The poets are all dying

Or perhaps

We only notice them when they are old

It seems the greats are all gone,

We pretenders scratch in the dirt,

Hanging our heads,

Trying to muster up the ego to

Put down the words,

To pretend that poetry still matters,
And then, to edit,

To put on the mask, the forgotten art,

Chasing the lightning

That we once felt at our fingertips.

We too are growing old,

The ink spinning out of the plasma

From a tube in the arm

But death is always with us.

How much ink is left?

Altar love.
Bone love.

Grave love.

Thorn love.
After love.

Altar love.

After( )light.

"Pass with care."