Last Waltz

Here's another new poem from John Lyons

Last Waltz

What will be the first of the last things

The first word of the last words

The first day of the last days

The first kiss of the last kisses;

What will be the first breath

Of the last breaths, the first sigh

And the first of the long goodbyes?

Here in Buenos Aires the streets

Are haunted by those who have

Gone before, by those who have walked

These noble streets that fell in recent years

Upon such hard times, a sad dreary elegance

Now clinging to so many crumbling façades.

This clear blue sky and crisp ocean air

Known to Borges, known to Cortázar,

Which weathers the skin in the daily bounty

Of those who survive. This may be the first

Of the last memories, the first taste

Of the last tastes to tantalize my palate

The first of the last loves to be made

In the first of the last beds. And as I wake

And dress in the first of the last clothes

Put on the shoes that may be blessed

To take the first of the last steps,

I recall Emily’s supercilious valley-licking train,

A vector of sound in the long speechless distance

A vector of thought, a rugged nugget of words

Condensed around an ecstasy of emotion:

From distance, the sensation of intimacy,

From a silence broken, the tactile meaning of words

Of love, the first of the last words of love,

The first of the last brushes of skin against skin,

Of lip against lip. This is, and always was a merry

macabre dance,  whether upon a lush city stage,

A retarded Calvary  or in the empty heart of the pampas:

Our steps are numbered, even as the band is poised

To strike up the very first chords of our very last waltz.

John Lyons

Buenos Aires 31 October 2011