by John Kendall Hawkins
.
At the end of time, and it's not far off,
dead stars will float, still as bone lotuses
on an unrippling pond of silence. Cough,
said the doctor. Polishing moduses
vivendi, fishbowl on the window sill --
tetras flit in and out of the full moon
remembered. The doctor has a new pill
he says I should try. I'll be dying soon.
I dreamt I was on the Mississippi:
Jim talked of Heraclitus -- one, many
ways to the sea, if you knew how to be,
and he sure knew: he'd run away plenty.
The pills are like bone lotuses swallowed --
infinity. The deepest sleep followed.
(Article changed on Apr 20, 2021 at 10:21 PM EDT)
