A man of considerable refinement
& impressive achievements in the subtle arts
dies alone to-day.

A body chewed through by age
& cancers lies
silent amid colored scraps (notes
to himself) - confetti of self-celebration;
life lived inside his own mind. A book,
solitary studies of Parisian streets
& moonlight - unfinished.

All the ships are sailing,
mastheads sinking beneath the horizon.
Sand in his shoes, sand
from a shore creating the illusion
of boats going down
to the bottom of the ocean. He thinks
maybe it is better
to be left behind.