My last poem will include everything –

asparagus, needles, sirens, hogs.

It will hold Paris and Venus equally.

Physics and philosophy will vie for honours,

my last poem containing a burning house

and smattering of incontinent gods.

You'll find a cat walking in snow

and bittersweet deathcap mushroom.

Tire irons. Vitamins. A selection of vinyl 45s.

There’ll be plenty of the past in my last poem.

Lost loves. Mammoths. Missing silverware.

I’ll be writing for a month of Sundays.

The eternal flame and belching cow –

all manner of chaos shall be routed.