I wish I were like the rain-fed
pools which the earth swallows,
filling the cups of dead poets
with delusions of resurrection.

Then I could touch the whiskey-
soaked lips of Dylan Thomas and
understand why he drank himself
under the ground.

But we all know that poets
die tragically young;
a final casualty in their personal civil war;
fueled by the fires of self-destruction,
ignited somewhere inside
a half-empty bottle scotch
and a stale, half-smoke cigarette.

But death must come to them differently.
Dying of old age would be too easy, no drama.
And yet they hear the names they used,
Drawn to the sound like addicts
hurting for a good memory,
hurting for a little fix.

Just imagine if I became like those
pools of polluted delusions,
as the earth slowly drinks me whole;
allowing me to wet the lips
in a baptism for those poets
who drown themselves in a drink.

 
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