Probably the Last Dawn Poem
Did I bring them closer
Together in this soap opera chain-
Smoking pseudo-wooden-fern-bar
Port-in-the-storm?
Did I care once about her
And her high looks soft
Threat of a voice
Long drink of eyes waiting
For me?
It’s strange no it isn’t
Now I’m old and they’re young
And even though I must be above putting things
In nice boxes
I have to start doubting my level of Reason
And my need to find my age
Wherever it may have gone
They say that no one is
Over Thirty without at least
One or more of the following . . .
— But let’s not mourn for dead things material issues
Bound to upset and suffocate us the social
Phenomena are not worth a lousy poem
If she and I had met first if
It had been on the strand
In the moonlight
Headphones playing Mozart quadraphonically
I take her phones off she
Takes mine off and the night
Follows the music
Played more beautifully deeply
Waves as melody omen future ground and rhythm
The sea pressing against us pressing our bodies against . . .
Lucky for me I still have
This inner life
This cradle of fire-visions
Writing-desk universe
—by Douglas Pinson