I often think back
to that letter
I received.

About what would have
happened if I
had read

it instead of letting
my friends choose
our course.

I am sorry
for saying
goodbye

when I really
meant hello
I was young

I wasn't ready
but neither
were you.

So much depends
Upon

A great blue
Ocean

Blanketing over the
fishes

Shimmering under the
Sun

SO much depends upon a red wheel barrow
So MUCH depends upon a red wheelbarrow
So much DEPENDS upon a red wheelbarrow
So much depends UPON a red wheelbarrow
So much depends upon A red wheelbarrow
So much depends upon a RED wheel barrow
So much depends upon a red WHEEL barrow
So much depends upon a red wheel BARROW

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

so much depends
upon

an elderly Jewish
woman

possessing an acid
wit

and having survived
cancer

an edge, the Double facet
becomes a gEometry--
but each petAl ends in
    But if it enDs
but love is at an End--of roses
              cementiNg the grooved
                       colD, precise, touching
               columnS of air--The edge
Crisp, worked to deFeat
     cuts without cuttIng
                            edGe and the
                           figUred in majolica--
        from it--neitheR hanging
    From the petal's Edge a line starts
    glazed with A rose
                              infiniteLy fine, infinitely
                                      It Is at the edge of the
itself in metal or porcelaiN--
          laboredness--fragilE
    makes copper roses
         meets--nothing--renews
           nor pushing--
         penetrates space
                       petal that love waits
             plucked, moist, half-raised
              rigid penetrates
      Sharper, neater, more cutting
so that to engage roses
  Somewhere the sense
               steel roses--
            that being of steel
          the broken plate
The fragility of the flower
           the Milky Way
The place between the petal’s
        The rose carried weight of love
       The rose is obsolete
        the start is begun
     unbruised
    What
whither? It ends—
without contact--lifting

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.

I have eaten
raw cookie
dough
that was in the freezer

and which
you were probably
saving for a party

Forgive me
it was scrumptious
so sweet
and so cold