Last Poem as Myself “It was his last afternoon as himself” —W.H. Auden From here the paths from past to now are clear and there are points I know which lead to the other universe of song, surprise, salt spray and possibility. The flush and flow of tide, the reaming of fissures, the roll of shell and sand and heat and cold will wear down memory until we are scoured to nothing or thrown up like flayed and filigreed fish food for forensic scientists to fillet, probe and gut. For the moment though I use this terrain, the line between…