William Everson

 

The Poet Is Dead

(excerpt from Everson's memorial for Robinson Jeffers) 

Snow on the headland, 
The strangely beautiful 
Oblique concurrence, 
The strangely beautiful 
Setting of death. 

The great tongue 
Dries in the mouth. I told you.

The voiceless throat 
Cools silence. And the sea-granite eyes. 
Washed the sibilant waters 
That stretched lips kiss peace. 

The poet is dead. 

Nor will ever again hear the sea lions 
Grunt in the kelp at Point Lobos. 
Nor look to the south when the grunion

Run the Pacific, and the plunging 
Shearwaters, insatiable, 
Stun themselves in the sea.