The last line is what it is because of the way it sounds: It sounds like where it comes from.
30 September 2014
One Morning, Midnight, Day
One day I’ll join the heavenly choir, and when I have, you’ll hear my dreams.
All those nights of weary anguish, love much less than all it seems
between low tearful downcast eyes, where all the mire just writhes with life.
Don’t you stare down past your feet. That cesspit’s where you’ll meet your wife,
if you’re not careful. Dreaming’s not that easy. Think it; aye, it comes
to life—if in a far uncanny way. We’re deaths and lifes whose sums
don’t ever add up equally, but if you lie down soft and still,
maybe just a wing fans near, a feather loosens, drops—a quill
you might take interest in: What if this shaft draws up a drop of ink,
carries it a far wild way, and bids one read its message? Think
again before you go so far, but really; when have poets thought?
This feather’s brought itself to you, in hope you might inscribe the lot
of insights it’s gained, flying low and high, but always fast. Dear man,
I need to raise my voice again, and birdlike. My own wild wingspan
is greater than your vision, fore and aft. Full circle, mine rings round.
I shall die the death of love before I face the crushing ground
on which all hopes lie, having flagged and dropped their care for this small place.
Choir, bear down, and sing with me. I’m coming home, with such a face
upon me, you’ll scarce recognize the daughter you sent here to sing.
Only one more day—one day, in which I’ll fan my whole soul’s wing
toward the wind that promises to bear it far. On that—this—day—
lean to me, who hear me from so high a place while I yet pray.