Poetry 2014 / Volume 45

The Last Flower — Bruce McRae

The gentle swaying of the world,
its specks of dust and dinosaur bones,
isms vibrating on every frequency,
the essences of science being said and done,
light rays and light waves subsumed
by weathering wind and water.

Hearing frank opinions on the radio
and possible sea-cow lowing,
looking for a shoe to throw at the moon,
the forecast allowing for day, then night,
foreknowledge influenced
by even our most trivial obsessions.

Amongst ruins, rubble, remnants and rot–
summer swinging higher, gravity thrumming,
entropy a real go-getter, your ill-gotten passions
turning love into a metabolic sludge, drudgery
another word for going into work today,
yours truly trudging through coal dust,
reaching for the last flower, seeing a light,
or something very like a light, strung in mid-air,
the what-is going side-to-side in sidereal fashion.
The hour late. The journey longer.

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