Sport 39: 2011
The Last of Bashö
Bashö writes of the purple wine he likes.
Of the barman’s slim syringe and black nail-polish.
Of the ten-dollar note burning in the ashtray.
Of the silver airship moored above the pines,
the tethered airship going nowhere slowly.
The snide sirens dive and the rain catches fire,
but what of the Bengal engine’s mango afterglow?
Bashö alone and walking some high path.
Bashö alone and climbing the concrete steps to heaven,
a flask of gin in his satchel.
A flask of gin and a spring roll gone cold.