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.