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?