will not be written,
read, or ever spoken.
No anthology
will ever search for
proof of authorship,
or beg my mother
to release the rights,
or find some lost draft.
My final poem,
like all of your own,
will be sickly sweet,
and wet, then dusty
as marrow hardens.
It will be boring
unless uncovered
by some future men,
put up on display:
l'homme ordinare, morts.
In either event,
My final poem
will be shattered down
to its basic parts,
its few elements
when it is eaten
with Earth, by the sun.
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