There is no poetry that he cannot tame.
His voice is a church bell that gives birth to saints.
They practice their medicine outside in the rain,
but the puddles lay still—
and his people still pray.
This is the last night he preaches;
The last night he eats;
The last night to embrace each side of her face;
But the lovers are crippled by falling asleep—
and she wakes to his cold,
and knows he pleased the Lord.
There is no sadness or curse in the streets.
There is no remembrance or somber exchange.
But there are the people with words inked on their lips.
Because he has written it down—
the poet lives on.