We sat in rows listening to your poems being read at your funeral. I heard them as you would have read them. He's not dead, he could never die, I said to myself. This stuff's not for funerals, whoever you are, reading from the pulpit in a priest's garb. You are dead wrong, the man still is with us, bleating his lines. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |