Poem: The New Song is the Last Song

THE NEW SONG IS THE LAST SONG

The new song is the last song,

An evensong,

And always was,

Even when last sung

In the old world,

The world that took itself for granted,

That breathed easily and

Was often bored.

That world has drowned,

And long ago became a trout,

A huge old brown

Lurking at the convergence of

The River and the Creek,

Where it so happened it

Consumed me, bit by bit,

After my drowning

On the doctor’s  funeral day.

So I became a trout but

Lingered sufficiently on land

To preside at the funeral

At Canadensis,

The first place I went

After my death,

The first place of sure and certain hope,

Sure and certain as this day and these words,

Sure and certain as the convergence of

The River and the Creek

Where the evensong,

The last song,

Was done,

And still is being sung,

Or at least hummed

While taking out the trash.