A Poem For Who Comes After Me

Best case scenario - my fame walking on two legs wearing a golden helmet (I made a bowl which I hammered out of a lump of copper in workshop-class aged 14, not good, but all is golden now, for he who comes after me has written an autobiography that has left-out most of my failed handiworks). He speaks from the empty shell of a hermit crab. Distant stars love him. He continues restoring my poems long after they have crashed into brick walls. Or, he may come as the woman, the one I have been seeking in that frosted window of a past life, She who I can only recall when drunk on Blue Nun wine, a Liebfraumilch that knits all star-crossed lovers together as they write themselves quietly out of history. In that almost land my beloved unveils herself, waits for my mind to open like a blushing coral sea anemone. On the other hand, he who comes after me that man who watched my life as if my body were at the bottom of a cliff, he who also goads me to tinker with words, converting them into land-mines that sometimes maim. If he shows up after my life then I am going to haunt him because he deserves to be scared of a guy like me.