Stephen Crane lies open on the table.
Life is struggle, that is the given.
It is also alive with glittering shards
of color. Bloodreds, green and gold,
the snow-froth at the top of waves.
He is a priest of seeing.
He dies at 29.
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john mann poems 
As a death oriented writer I agree with the premise of this poem. I also believe that our only consolation is primarily visual, so, I would love to see just one more line with another image. I think it would set up your concluding lines rhythmically. Otherwise, a nice, tight poem!
I’ve actually been thinking about one more visual! Thanks, Steve.
On Thursday, October 30, 2014, john mann poems wrote:
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