The Last Poem
Who will write
the last poem?
Maybe she'll be
crouched
on the beach,
the edge of the
Pacific, as the tide
rolls out
for the last time,
yellow and red,
pulling with it
empty boats
and broken houses
and silver waves
of dead fish,
into a purple sun
big enough to
swallow the earth,
maybe she'll
scratch the poem
into black sand
with a burnt stick,
writing fast as
she can, trying to
remember the shapes
of the words
as her skin tightens
and smokes,
sending up
wisps of soul
before she explodes,
super nova.
And the poem
will be
her name.
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