In the last poem
words disintegrate.
Soft dust of brown
moth wing. Fragment.
Ruined remnants of a doric
column. Expectant, with
the crowded mind of
the often observed.
It stalls at the exit, lingers, asks
one last how before it wafts into
holographic robes of yet to be. Then,
as the door eases on brass hinges, laughs
backwards, recites itself
and breaks.
