by Nicolette Stasko
All over the world
poets are going up in flames
leaving
little piles of ashes
in the shape of mountains
it seems we do not notice
their going
so much else is ablaze
but the darkness
is growing and
it is not our eyes
who will be here
to help us see?
to be the mole of the wind
reminding us of death’s bright
clothes
pointing out
where the stars used to be
from under the glare of so many
busy street lamps
Glass Cathedrals
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