THE LAST DAYS

The Last Days of Johnny Carson

There was smoke and some laughter.

There was space for the hour glass.


The Last Days of John Wayne

He came a long way to find the saddle bags empty.

My last breath will be a horse,
a white horse, and cactus.


The Last Days of Bette Davis

Bees, there were lots of bees.

And they lit two cigarettes
one for the air and one for death.

But no one was there to see the canopy fall.


The Last Days of Billie Holiday

The blue was like breaking glass,
headlights – a rare variety of delphinium.

But all that mattered was the rising & falling of the rib cage
as sound became morning and mourning became sound.

what will become of the morning and the light

the strange attempts

composing Elliot’s last line

in darkness and in light

unarmed in the glory of retail

Venice is finally lost

after the long pause
& sea shells
we practice the art of avoidance

we only hear hand prints
white paper and corrugated tin

floating

we have no words
grammar or god

dressed in white, they prayed

Voices, scored into
the waters’ green.
When the kingfisher dives
the split second whirs:

What stood by you
appears on every shore
mown down
into another image.

*

a doll, a rice steamer, a clock
drying in the sun

*
the fishermen have not returned

*
washed into the sea
these are not their voices

---------------------

Notes: The first stanza is from an untitled poem in Paul Celan's Glottal Stop, p. 1

The place of vulnerability is also the place of poetry.

--Nikolai Popov & Heather McHugh, from the preface to Glottal Stops: 101 Poems, by Paul Celan, p. xiii

in the square
there is no tin cup for change
only lace from a wedding dress

and a derailed train