Noting

Empty submission on death arrived
writer’s desk at noon

Working quiet long hours to fill it
it should be expected soon

Entries harnessed dispatched flesh
the height of breath commands

came up to slum piled gay ash
in want of familiar gray hands

Screamed at Pushkin scolding Hughes
gave-up on own outlaw’s joke

when to play-up the dead writers to
for through who I felt that I spoke