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.