Letter To A dead Poet

A Poem

Douglas Caraballo Mahairas

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He looks out over the earth, and the shapes
that arise there. The dirt and clay speak,
lightning kissed, the universe from egg,
the garden lost.
He looks out over the earth and the beasts
that dwell there.

The earth is callused over with concrete and
buildings, where tales of treachery and triumph
unfold.
We look out over the earth, and hear
their whispered panting in the shade of space.

At night, I stand by the river bank, and look
at the city. The lights are like the field in Minnesota,
where lost in a blizzard,
I turned off my car and watched
the snow fall until morning.

The earth is filled with cities like this one,
with people who nervously order their coffee, and bravely
walk the subway’s by night. This microcosm of reality;
this reflection of the eternal story taking place near nowhere.

I walk to the park where madness sits on a lonely bench
like the last crow of a perished murder.
The lamp light functions as solitary moon,
more liquid than wave, more painting than reality.

The poet died somewhere in this city.
His red hair, and blue eyes no longer
warp the world through drug tinted lenses,
the rings that made the skull, rest beneath the dirt.
The poet died here; in this spot. Trying to make
nowhere into something.

He looked out over the earth, and the shapes
that arose there. The dirt and clay speak,
lightning kissed, the universe from egg,
the garden lost.
He looks out over the earth and the beasts
that dwell there. And he knows it is good.

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