Epitaph

Rest here
    the still-born poems that sputtered and died
Rest here
    the prose, amphibious, grasping for land
Rest here
    the vague allusions, thrice explained
Rest here
    the early draft abandoned, orphan child
Rest here
    the art-pride wounded, neatly healed
Flown from here
    the finished poems — not here but risen
        to a better life.