““AN ARTIST’S DEATH SALLY COOK | 118 words For Bryant I’ve often thought of writing about you, And how your voice once filled the little square How there was very little I could do Except go to the funeral home, just where They’d patched your broken face and made it new, And covered breaks in bone to make you fair Again with makeup, mucilage, and glue. I watched a line of students snake through there— This narrow clef of unsung dirge wound through To see you still and silent, just to stare At what had once been you; follow the queue— Death had destroyed your voice. It was a mere Two days ago your notes had filled the air. Tear as it will at beauty, death can do Nothing to lay its guts and sinews bare— Still, you lay satin-boxed, beyond repair.””
