on the death of a poet

It is brave to dance

Maybe there will always be poets

And we were fortunate

To have them render unto us

At first hand

The moment of creation

A created moment

We breathed the same air

And that is nearly a miracle

A modern one

Transcendent, or mirroring, critiquing, embracing,

Revealing, loving, hating

The world we can see

And the world we would like to

But cannot

Yes, it is the brave

And the beautiful and the crumbled

Who grapple with the word

Who grapple with themselves

And demon gods

Of the millions of people

That have ever lived

Across all the debris and detritus

Of this doomed human rampage

Together we danced.