The Writer's Will

The window plunges as the old tree coughs.    
Take these leaves from the tube of my socks.      
Brace my heart; I don't have ribs.      
Pencils twist on my vortical ears.      
      
Can you speak with less powder?      
And I'll smoke with less tea in the portable icer.      
     
I'm a fan of a faun that steeled through a caravan in December.      
I'll disappear.      
     
The pushpins hang a note —      
D possibly,      
but cold air collapses to a timbre      
that only bates bowls of oxygen from the breast      
concurrent with resignation toward walls of calligraphical error      
to which I entrust la fin      
de existence, de résistance, de raison d'être et l'état      
in the case of my skin clearing      
straight to the buds      
of crabs invading the garden of my dissolution.      
     
Because,      
as I wrote in polyps of paper before,      
     
I am gone.