I know there’s a horde of dead poets
competing for your attention.
From your point of view,
we all lived in the same time:
the past. Sappho, Emily,
scads of scribblers you can’t name –
like maybe, for example, me.
But back when we were living in it,
it wasn’t the past.
We may have worn funny clothes,
but we breathed exactly like you do,
and, oh, honey, how we longed
for stuff – the usual stuff:
love and some notion of the cosmos.