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There is a cup of coffee That will be my last. I will not know it at the time. Then there will be no more. A final time that I make love Or cross the hot street cursing rude traffic, That I hear the cardinal’s clarinet Or pound a nail crookedly into obstinate wood, Trace the moon’s corona with my common finger Squash a deer fly into my scalp Scold my son’s daughter’s son Or caress my daughter’s son All of these things I love or am bitten by. Through my losses I have come to see My blindness To signs and omens. That I rarely know when to bid goodbye. There will be a last time For the loud hour and the tiptoeing second All of the things that I do not even note Then each will stroll quietly away One by one Neglecting to me that they will be gone. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact its author) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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