So sick of hearing
Of the death
Of this unacknowledged
Legislator of the world
And of that, I cannot
But think in these mean times
How many have come before
And how many are yet to come
And how many after that—
A distressing, unceasing line
Of well-meaning poets
Dead or alive or yet to be
Strung out and scrawling across
An indifferent, chaotic universe—
It doesn’t get much better than that.
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