Last Things

First things, last things, and things in between are waiting out yonder for us to fill in our spaces. I thus get poems like this one:

P.S. Eliot

As afterthought to Extra Pound,

I'm sent post scriptum all around,

post haste indeed, as very well,

through water high, through deepest hell,

through fire and ice, through ending, found!

There is therefore now not just an Extra Pound, but also even a P.S. Eliot! We find these two final lost ones hiding in Meinong's Jungle, pursued by impossible beasts . . .