Quick Silver Fish (Poetry)

For H.D.

The poet’s dead —
can we believe
how that clear stream
of words has ceased to be?

The tongue has dried —
no wisdom drips
or observations
wide the clouded eye

The page an empty
dustbowl bled
of all that’s living
all that fed
imagination’s waterfall

yet we are left with
scores of precious
little bones
from her quick silver fish
that glitter even after death
among still-thirsting
open lips of stones