Day 192

They are burying the poets.  This one
assassinated, this one dead of cancer in prison.
They are burying the teachers.  They are burying
the doctors, the nurses, the journalists.
They are burying the geography, the history.
They are burying the memories.  They are burying
the dreams that lived inside the children, 
even those children they haven’t buried.
Reconstitute the world, Adrienne wrote. 
Didn’t they know what they buried were seeds
that will germinate underground, come up 
through the fallen concrete?