It’s the last day of April and the last of thirty poems. So, staggering to the finish there is this:
you notice how the ending dribbles out
to nothing? “a last, a loved, along the “
It’s out of gas. It can’t complete the thought
unless you start the cycle once again
at riverrun, but who would read the thing
a second time or even read it once?
The book is better if it’s not been read.
It’s like a lot of things that’s better left
to our imagination—like this poem.
Once this poem’s written down and read
it’s fixed. It’s formulated on a pin.
It’s dead. There isn’t any movement, life.
It’s static. Moribund. Deceased. And so
there isn’t any poem here today.
It’s left unwritten, left to gestate, and