Yes. I have seen the end, and yes,
I was disturbed by what I saw.
That I yet glimpse occasional

He found old age awaiting him 
                on a spare and limpid plain
         between Troy’s embers and the mines’

—like Venice, save
that the canals are scarlet, and decay
impossible, neither are the boats

The way had become unbearably slow, progress
imperceptible. Even his hunger had become
less, little more than a poorly remembered myth

Of Love's discrete occasions, we
observe sufficient catalogue,
a likely sounding lexicon

Not your ordinary ice cream, though the glaze
of these skeletal figures affects
the disposition of those grinning candies

As you might expect, my momentary vision barely
qualifies: you know, sensation something like the merest
swoon, some uncertainty about why all of a sudden