All of Her Poetry, Still

For Mary O.

I didn’t know Mary was dead.
(No one told me about Maya, either) A blank
Pause when I read about it online.

Poets don’t go out when we die.
(We live with Death while we live.)
We stay home.

Which is why when Walt said to me
(The other day)
That to die is luckier than I suppose;

I believed him.

S.J. Wynn
+he Ghos+