what may be last, my cynic

what may be last, my cynic
is considerably more

than what i so open- armed and ill-informed
had bargained for

turning my pockets inside out
and showing what remained

bare and undulating
was a stomach churning drop, a burning yellow plain

the grass grew high all summer long
it waited for its flame

and what is parched, what is reduced
is all now that remains.

i read it in a book, my cynic
that ecstasy is pain

shocking the body in waves
on nights that beg for rain

i've been a fool and been a fool
and poor as could be conceived

what has burned and loved me
retrieved, my cynic, and hardly believed

hindsight shows me some ophelia
tumbling toward the reeds

the present shows me only
what may be last

and what i need.