writers, ramblers, poets & outlaws

Epitaph for the Last Poet … by Sandy McKinney

I am the poet. I will be heard.
I speak for the mute, the fallen bird
bereft of flute and flutter,
for the damned
the dim, the daft, the desperate
the ewe new-lambed in winter
the mutter of worms, the spider’s fantasy
Forget my name, but by God remember the leaf
floating windless without wings
and the cold sod
that receives it, the seed
ungerminated, the need
for light on growing things.

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