The Last Leaf

Quiescent, like the last leaf,
its failure to fall, I suppose
I must have one more poem remaining,
but I'm reluctant to shake it free
and see it fall like this
with no pretty pirouettes
in the music of the wood,
nor will it find its way to water,
silent ripple or tsunami;
it won't make a plash,
but fall brittle and brown
beneath a canopy of arthritic arms
and fuck you fingers
where the leaves have been leavened
to the point of compost, so that
I no longer know what's mine:
It's rotten like the rest,
and I see no need to add to this,
to pluck this last quiescent leaf
while you so hate the forest.


(January 1990)