I wish I could be one of these –
Gibran, Yeats, Blake or Whitman
I am not –
One of the immortals
That live again
Their lines have their own section
The visited Graves
Engraved in scholars
Read in study halls between the flickering lights
and plastered walls
past the vending machines and the coffee bar
the beige stains on the pages and pencil marks
the folded ears that leave off where they are