To Write Paradise

Ah, the little monk
Sits, thinking of poems

One to be the last,
The enso poem,

The final gesture.
He knows it won’t be.

It’s silly, really.
As the body fails,

The awareness goes—
Sometimes long before.

The honest last poem?
A twitch and a sigh

No one notices
Far more likely than

A calligraphic
Circle of panache.

Ah, the little monk
Sits, thinking, pretend

The one you like best’s
The one you did last.