HERE I AM

Here I am
poet of memory
of the rabbis
and the saints
of the helpless
and the homeless
of the lost lamb,
of the regained
of the dreamers
and the slain
of the fellow on the cross
and the yellow star
of the mass grave
in the Ukraine
in the gravity of Poe
and gravitas of Neruda
among the blood
of Gulag snows
in the humanity
of Whitman
in Manhattan,
in the region
of Dickinson's soul
and by Melville's
encantadas of rivers
that Hart Crane's
white sail flows
by Florida and delivers.