Eight years ago today, a little over a week before his death at 90 on September 3, in his home in Hudson, NY, John Ashbery handwrote this poem, his last:

Climate Correction

So what if there was an attempt to widen

the gap. Reel in the scenery.

It’s unlike us to reel in the difference.

We got the room

in other hands, to exit like a merino ghost.

What was I telling you about?

Walks in the reeds. Be

contumely about it.

You need a chaser.

In other words, persist, but rather

a dense shadow fanned out.

Not exactly evil, but you get the point.

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Your dreamscape is littered with cots

for pedestrians from the 1870s

who spread whimsicality as they circled ovals

to the delight of the nosebleed section . . .

A gargantuan hydrangea

fills your head with words . . .

You board a bespoke shuttle with questions . . .

The morning splits into high and low

for skateboarders of different ilks

cresting airwaves in anticipation . . .

An aria would be nice . . .

Pensioners in rent-stabilized apartments

join newsworthy fidgeters

to discourage weekend narcissists

from bullying nature with cairns for selfies . . .

Rent-a-doves see it all . . .

Katerina Plotnikova

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Memories, imagination or indignation,

trod the corridors of backstories,

a renewed connection to a lifetime of incidentals

demarcated with wax pencils

as the elements of style voice irrecoverable

from Fritz Lang's 1927 Metropolis,

with Brigitte Helm shadowing a robot's

seductive power and the dangers of AI

as a portal into space-time's loosey-gooseiness . . .

Shockingly blatant . . . the iffyness

feathering far too many nests

flopping around in culverts

trying to alert gandy dancers

and knock-knock jokers to the reality

of flesh-eating bacteria invading

kettle holes and streaming services

causing massive fragmentation

and higher-than-high rates of confusion and dementia . . .

Pick a flick or enter the water with care

and be sure to arm yourself with a designer duffel bag

though I'm not sure why . . .