slam poetry

the ships are lying in the bay
sleep, gray brother of death
let me move slowly through the street
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
high-born race
i stand in the cold gray weather
softly now the light of day
softly weeping
stuff of the moon
that year
out of the window a sea of green trees
i am old and blind
why are the things that have no death
now for a brisk and cheerful fight