Dead Poets are liked pursed clams camped in hallow graves
Glassed, cold, mute but wiggling.
Clicking their deep hand prints in secret places
It seems strange to go seeking illumination from such sad & blighted ghosts

Never again to know their perceptional genius

Their marred hope
Their savage intimacy
Their staunch resolve
Their breached grace
Their caustic tragedies

To be so incapable to draw on the beauty of their art to anchor them to life

DeAnna Esquilin

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-sylvia-plath-the-like/