Status Updates From The Darkening Trapeze: Last...

When I say you to what isn't there I mean me.

What I love is the way you would whisper against
The currentm into the dark,

And all of it happens in silence.
The color of the apron seems to change each time
The clerk raises the bat in both hands, changes
Like a remembered beach that was now in sunlight,
Now in the shadow of clouds—all there is left
Of the picked-over, looted, empty attic of heaven.

And the syllables of Florida were like a fire.
Like the flicking of a girl's tongue inside his ear,

As when a glass shatters during an argument,
And we are secretly thrilled.... We wanted it to break.

"And I guess
Death will blow his little fucking trumpet. "