Robert Verdon, #156, The Great Fugue

we follow

the sharp arc of a fingernail,

the sun with curved fog rays

on the white rainbow of death,

the great ship slow but sweeping all aside like a bowling ball,

the crowd jumping like raindrops on hot steel,

the last curtain that never parts

let me be with you until the grave

claims us both

meanwhile

let us breathe with a skipping heart

in the great fugue of our last decades

two brilliant parrots in a wattle bush

two white moths in a taiga of rosemary