some music, preferably performed;
we also stop thinking; that I was an existentialist
and empiricist to the end,
was in my narrative too,
and my beautiful wife, Marilyn —
how much I enjoyed singing and playing
apple fritters, apple turnovers, apple pie
and, of course, my mother,
but not America’s hegemony
and political insanity.
And that nights filled with stars,
wind chimes and crunching through leaves
from a long time ago.
And that it is old age who arrives
unannounced one day
and is not mine to keep,
because it now belongs to you.
So exaggerate just a little:
before I died, but that you
have since forgotten what it was,
though you think I might have whispered
Beethoven’s final words:
from my other poem about wishing to die
after leaving an éclat to posterity.
Or was it something else I wanted to say?
A cliché perhaps?
is revealed through what we love.