* A reconstruction of Rupert Brooke’s Dead Men’s Love
There was a Poet, just like a Woman.
And they were dead.
They did not know the sun or that
their time had served
a filthy dust.
One old day, they clung to fire.
Broken feet, face-to-face.
above hell’s streets.
On blue lips, an empty wind
breasts against short drains, emptying