The Last Days

I know it can’t last.
Letters like armadas lurk in the mail,
termites eat the rafters and the pantries,
and insects drink up the wine
of the last tender nights.

But still today,
in all its flawed eternity,
was gorgeous from start to end.
For I was a generalissimo
in the true nineteen thirties sense,

a dissipated poet,
a Chinese monk arguing with the waterfall.
I lay defeated and triumphant
amidst the bitten and wounded fruit.

I plunged headlong into the girl’s doomed skin,
while outside, the morning grass wept.
And when the stones had all fallen,
I paced the market for luxurious fingers

and indulged the sun
with light caresses in the palm of my hand.
Nothing faltered,
and no one came to collect
the hours that poured from the open windows.

We were all left alone by the authorities,
the pick-pocket billionaires,
and the pulverizing sky.
Like fools of the very last play,
we laughed at how easy it was
to take back our ancient fires.

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