Last Prayer

Lay me down in the evening’s morn.
Bring fire-, dragon- and butterflies. Cast
hemlock shadows across the field and tamp me down
with a barefoot jig above. Rope off the angels
but let the demons through. Call every stranger
I never met, but should have,
and hand them a sparkler and a jug of wine.

Let there be rolling hills of my ex-lovers,
and let them bring their new loves and fuck
sweet and deep and rich like Autumn cider,
until the ploughshare lifts
and plants their dreams anew.
Let all the silver, lyre-picking sonsabitches gather,
the poets of despair who carried me
on their drooping wings and let them yank
the last, stainless, unpoemed word from their gut
and toss it on my grave. Give them each a million
dollars and a house of wind.

Shake the world and watch the unleafing
from a Lazy-Boy chair with massage on high.
Let the bells chime everywhere off-key
and send for a pizza pie. Tell all my creditors
to kiss my rotting ass and ride
my Harley to the moon.

Lie to me; tell me the last virgin in Vegas
will waltz naked across my grassing brow,
and that the words I loved were true.