The ailing poet examines
his typescript, adds a comma, deletes
the second adjective, prunes
a line-length, cuts, sutures, enjambs,
and dies the next day.
The need to believe
there is octane enough
in a bequest of verbs
to gallop,
dive,
scoop,
abduct,
rescue
reader and writer
in the long hard ride
into the sunset.
The need to believe language
will see us through
and that old, old need
to go, typo-free, to the printer.