Howard Firkin
Where are you now? Where do I send this last
of many? What’s become of you/us/me?
I barely perched upon your family tree,
but still, I’d like to think that something’s fast:
a memory, a sound, an incident.
Where are you now? I know. That cloudy place,
that place of mists, of postcards from a friend,
of work, of flowers no one thinks to send,
that place where mirrors hold a single face,
where wistful has the force of old intent.

Goodbye. The word ’last’ always twists my gut,
but this is something last, the final must:
as fine as smoke, an end of thread that’s cut
and curls and falls, a single cobweb, dust.