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 15.
The poets die off, one by one,
Their words are fragile echoes only, and may cling
To thermals in the air like whorls of birds
Or topple from the peaks with wimpled wing
But in their gestures, does not every one
Live to soothe, to open wounds,
Not to blind, not provoke.
16.
Is life as fragile as the poor example
Hemming night and day that passes by?
We all hope not; those small and barely ample
Moments flow like happy drops of rain that fly
Impelled by nothing more than gravity.
 16a.
But praise and use extra ordinary
Drops of language,
Lucent squibs of puddled ordnance
Slung over the bow of static indolence,
Mud Armadas plowing on,
In troughs, in sloughs of silent
Rote obedience to shake
The air and convulse the ripples of conscience
Forever.
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