This is Where the Poem Ends

This is Where the Poem Ends


Today I’ve chosen to humidify 
my homage with stale dust.
The results of my death are not in, 
yet I shall wait for that coffin 
in silence. I still have half an empty 
bottle of Nitrostat. Julia, my twin sister,
writers die the same in an Earthenware 
bottle on a city street, or a Newport 
smoke museum inhabited by paper 
unicorns with gigolo faces. 
This is where this poem ends,
but no! It’s like being on a pulpit 
spitting out some moral answer.
Not every frog looks the same,
although they are all called frog.
The most incredible thing about death
is that disappearing act and total silence, 
except in the case of poets.