Tomaz Salamun will write the last
poem on a rainy day in Ljubljana, a Friday
in April when lilacs fumble toward the light
and a hand lingers over a light switch.

Friday it will be, when a sparrow wrestles
twigs into the o in the word Tomaz
Bits of string and straw will fall
upon Tomaz's shoulders
and he'll nibble upon them.

Tomaz Salamun it will be then
who will be blamed long after the need
for blame, when poems will thirst

for human mouths, mouths hungry for poems.
A poem not unlike this one, the stem
of each letter lit from within like a throat.

____

For the record I am not interested in the tongue, or any other bodily part of Mr. Tomas Salamun, who is also the focus of "The Feast Letters," a collection of letters which were found in my copy of his newest collection of poetry, entitled Feast. (The letters were published in Conduit.)