The Old Writers
The Old Writers All the old writers of iron and blood are dying. They’re dying at their desks while writing Their final poem, the last line trailing off Like smoke, or in the desert, a hand over their eyes As if fending off the light, or in a room A much younger artist set up for them Because they could no longer live Alone in the mountains. They don’t even get to become their admirers Like Auden said Yeats did. The best they can hope for is that The New York Times runs an obituary An intern wrote one summer, a few years ago, An intern who has since gone On to other things.