One Poem to bind them All (from Peter Quick’s," Twenty One Poems ", written before his 2025 assisted suicide) - March 11, 2026

Oh, girl on a swing, soar into your sparkling day. I notice the algae in the pool needs shocking. I’ve declined my own treatment, though I’ll attack the enemies of my peaceful garden for all the little murders below. In this latter-day jungle, a predator feasts on me while a psychopath lurked in my family tree. He had too good of a run. And watch out for my stargazer lilies. A spectacular and lethal beauty. At Wellness Park I share my grief and he, his.  Hey, the park promised.

From my hotel window, the fluttering of angel wings. The weight of texts? A featherweight jigsaw. Must be a way to leave breadcrumb words. I never dropped clues before. This Dying for Beginners – I’m more alive than ever before.  At night on my balcony, I smoke a joint. With the moon on water, I succumb.  I could make a wish, but I’ll pass and in the crab’s cruel claw, I’ll turn on music.

Once a thrift store arbiter of value – that skill set deserts me now. My 200-year-old bedside table, the lives it has lived. To the sculptor of impaled heads, will you keep mine from shrinking? But oh, what will sis think, the pasteboard vessel, ashes sailing nowhere. O heavenly absent father of cheap tricks and weasel words, I’ve thirty years without a drink. Finally, the freeing cocktail. Sousa, Handel, Christian, Chopin and finally Bach, who heals as I fade. Tired of illusions of magic, I’ll vanish with a Cheshire grin.