The last never lasts long enough;
before that, always going somewhere,
growing somewhere.
When a camera was attached
to the heads of teenage drivers
it was found that they spent
most of their time watching the sky.

But suddenly, the scorned routine seems blessed,
blessed with the stain of impermanence;
even the bacteria are tinted with beauty:
one more time, just let me feel their fist.

Where does elegy meet up with reality?
What ill could be spoken of the dead?
The last time of anything ends too soon:
the final kiss
you’ll always miss
died beneath a full summer moon.

The End

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