The poem is dead.
The words are dead.
The verbs crawl back into their tenses
and practice perishing.
The nouns flee to the suburbs
and bury themselves in Subaru wagons.
When the last adjective strangles itself
with the wires of an upright Wurlitzer,
the poet pens his epitaph
on the margins of a terminal contraction,
but the church bells and cash registers
resurrect themselves and resume their ringings—
sweetnesses to the ears unrelated
to the conjunctions of sound and sense
in little chapels called syntax and stanza.
All the gods are glad to return
to the diversions of their familial feuds
beyond the futile gestures of language.
And the speechless angels,
shimmying their gossamer wings,
strum those golden harps
for another round of celestial singing.