In this latest will and testament,
a witnessed soliloquy in the law,
my head declares it's of sound mind

but begins to feel more like a skull
with a rich estate of emptiness
as my properties melt into air, thin air —

the cloud-capped towers of ego's empire,
the solemn temples of the self.
I'm Hamlet chin-wagging at Yorick's jawbone,

me talking to myself deceased,
one proper noun worn down to pronouns,
but if music is the zest of decay,

play on, a tune of infinite jest.
That skull tra la is a wishing well
in which I deposit my life's savings

never amounting to more than the silence
of a few falling coins that gather
outer space as they tumble, a vast

harvest. I inherit the universe
and in the same breath bequeath it
to all who'll be falling after me.

Philip Fried has published eight books of poetry, most recently Among the Gliesians (Salmon Poetry, Ireland, 2020).