when i am dead
will i search
for a dead goose’s feather
& dip the calamus
into a dead fire’s ashes
& into a dead beehive’s wax
& write a dead poem
on the skin of a dead calf
or on the dried pulp
of a dead tree
& will my dead dreams
be but memories
of when i last lived
& will all my loves
& sorrows
be but dead words?
or must i wait to write
until i am born again
into whatever times
& however poems breathe?
