My Last Poem

MY LAST POEM

            "Beginning definition, there are names; once names exist you must know where to stop." - Tao Te Ching

The question of how many ways

are there to say what silence says?

contains, deep down, we know  

an answer bound to be a bit abstruse—

something like, as many names are names 

enough to name the Om— but all the same, 

the disappointment is poignant.

 

Babble builds with broken bricks.  

Don’t understand? Try backing out 

of an inadvertent comment about 

your lover’s weight, and watch the way 

the more you say the more away

the object of affection moves.  

But then, you know a good alternative?

 

Or say that metaphor's a jello prison,

and, as such, (if tasty,) still a prison.

Heaven knows we’re 

bursting at the lining long before 

we chew our way to freedom!

Homeless, can we speak ourselves to home?

Enough. 3rd grade she told me how

she felt in lemon juice because back then we knew

the rules, and as it seems god speaks in lemon juice

I’d better go inside again—the quiet place—

where it's warm enough to show me

what the letters read.