à Yvette

Adieu. These are the final notes
I've tapped out on my ribs and chest.
A chest, in whose drawers
I've stored a few blank sheets,
paper eggs for my nest.
They will be buried with me,
be abused, enslaved by me,
be vipers at my breast.
No matter. Today a cricket I trill,
tomorrow an ant I'll caper,
that the day after its hate will spill
- from its stores that brine vats fill -
of topics, atoms and spirochaetes
posthumously onto paper.
Adieu! Who knows if I shall endure
through a later song or not,
whether I'll write it or not.
Absurd or not.
Alive or not.