IMPROVISATION #98
NO, WALT

No Walt,
the life of a poet
is not buried
in the salt marshes
or in the beds
of soldiers
in a time in strife
of Civil War
or from the vaults
of treasure
at the gold rushes
in California
but in a Nereid
who rises in a clever mystery
in books of knowledge
with lilacs on the cold sea
found here on a day
unfolding here in January
at Boston's home harbor
among the fleeing song birds
near the Golden Dome
still celebrating
while we are greeting
Edgar Allen Poe's
birthday whose memory
like yours, Walt
never drowned
from the faults, wrongs, hurts
in a throng of poets
like Emily Dickinson
of Amherst
who also deposit their words
at the edges of mythology.