p. 395: https://books.google.com/books?id=-Wf2AwAAQBAJ&pg=PA394&lpg=PA394&dq=o+yes+I+wish+her+well.+let+her+come+on&source=bl&ots=t61AkrF4jn&sig=OWzh3QXtxQ0R6U-FFy3lxlYoc9g&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjm17jh-pfKAhVH6SYKHbuAD0QQ6AEIHzAB#v=onepage&q=o%20yes%20I%20wish%20her%20well.%20let%20her%20come%20on&f=false
A Pre-Finale Introspective, Past Halfway, More to Come…
I work in a study stuffed with books.
I’ve read half of those—
Sages, visionaries, twirly-eyed kooks—
I’ll join their number soon enough
Authoring words behind
That work on some brain or disperse in a puff.
Most of these kooks are dead anyway.
I’ll join them that way too.
Books are best for living the day.
When dead I will have read my last
And probably won’t care,
Won’t spend thought and fear aghast
At my eyes’ withering and my brain
Dispersing in a puff
Of dust. I won’t be back again.
Till then, I love butterflies,
An angry fish on the line
I dream of ships with sails, skies
With roiling clouds, moving air
Stirring waves like soup,
A biplane overhead, the clear
Drone of an artful engine. I love
The smell of green trees
My heart and lungs racing above
The precipice I just climbed, worlds
Below me a puzzle. I love
To make with paint and wood and words
And food. Horses move me. Cats
Trust me. Eagles watch
Me. There’s more of course, but that’s
Enough of life for now. My dear
Ones know me. My friends
Can trust a sympathetic ear.
One thing more: I don’t give a fuck
I’m not immortal. Here
Is all my care, and I won’t duck
My life for ersatz dreams of future-
Tense glory. Screw that.
Till then, thanks, dead authors, for all your
Books. If they sprang from life
They matter to someone
Living now, your madness and strife
Urging us to run.