The Poet Of 1912 Poem by Leo Yankevich

Where is he now, the poet of
1912? Did he go the way
of Zeppelins that flew above
the Kaiser’s sky of soldat grey,

his tome forgotten in the attic
of 13 Wilhelmstrasse, dust
thick on its cover like the static
of yellowed years? Or did he thrust

himself into a muddy trench
as salvos burst near the latrine,
filling his nostrils with the stench
of urine, feces and gangrene?

No matter now. He lies beneath
unconquered soil, aloof to all,
with only dust between his teeth,
and only midnight in his skull.