Dead Poets are liked pursed clams camped in hallow graves
Glassed, cold, mute but wiggling.
Clicking their deep hand prints in secret places
It seems strange to go seeking illumination from such sad & blighted ghosts
Never again to know their perceptional genius
Their marred hope
Their savage intimacy
Their staunch resolve
Their breached grace
Their caustic tragedies
To be so incapable to draw on the beauty of their art to anchor them to life
DeAnna Esquilin
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-sylvia-plath-the-like/
