Last Poem

What a beautiful new rhythm.
This pulse is plenty
our bodies and the pale liquid inside
bitter as peach scented pillows.
The real, a catalog
of unevolved spirits from
things themselves, but our
impressions of them. Closing
arms along the river, delicate
pieces of brightly colored silk flags
in the salty wind.
You fall from a mountain top
to another, you run with a radio
and then one day you just walk around.
I came back and said why do you not stay here?
I've never been around when things started
but I've done my part and I'm sick of endings.
I live in a world where goodness is in most things,
you just have to look harder.
The sky looks awful with all that sun and blue.
See my section of the forest?
I smile on them, can be cut.
Robust, successful, young evergreens.
I understand the beautiful sounds
of cosmetics and how they act in the mind.
Oh, my descendants: life is strange when
you are still alive.