Who knew he'd be so charming?
The bed made just for me.
The lights grew slightly dimmer
as he pulled me closer in.
With a single, gentle kiss
The seduction was complete;
his bony fingers held my heart
making it skip it a beat.

He grappled with his ****-
sure attitude. True, it was hard
work, and he could have used a hand.
Jobs like this don’t come
along often.  If he shot
his chance moaning
and stroking
the ego of his new boss, he might pre-maturely
lose the momentum he was building.
As he got closer and closer
to finishing, he realized
he was proud of his member-
ship at this new company.  It was a great feeling.
After he came
to complete his work he was relieved
to have done this one,
on his own.

The last poem written by William Carlos Williams
must linger in the room
where he died
in his sleep.

Words float like atoms of dust
visible only in the light
of the afternoon sun.

There is comfort here
in this quiet room;
the unmade bed,
an empty glass,
the dog-eared pages of books
carefully stacked on the nightstand
waiting to be reread.

His last poem
does not slice the air like the jagged edge of cut metal;
rather, it succumbs to the
inevitable forces of entropy
tearing apart its metaphors
until they no longer resemble verse.

The last poem written by William Carlos Williams
falls to the shadowy corners
of the small room
unseen,
undisturbed,
at rest.

A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath -
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'

The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.

I thought I would write you a poem;
I wrote 100 lines of prose instead
only to unearth
3 lines of poetry
buried beneath the wreckage.