coup de grace (to the Beat Generation)

to dying bud, a poem

in deathbed, drowns aged wine

to Sunday night, half red

rivulets excess,

drunk, on shallow pooled reflection

green finger pokes petal,

like chapped lip, crumbles it

in crystal amphora

almost empty—

farewell, oxygen

to man’s closing scene, a bud

on starched sheets, drains plasma

to Sunday afternoon, half blue

pained electrodes cling

to drooping skin,

heart beats faint static

on clotted vein, finger strokes

within sterile walls

almost empty—

farewell, oxygen

to wilting poem, a man

on white leaves, wanders ink

to Sunday morning, half yellow

words thrive off clicks of peripatetic fingertips

a rash letter

of seedy Greenwich basements

& to its dregs, anticlimactic,

almost empty—

farewell, oxygen—