I thought I’d write my own obituary. Instead,
I wrote the poem for when I’m risen from the dead:
Ignite the flares, connect the phones, wind all the clocks;
the sun goes rusty like a medal in its box—
collect it from the loft. Peg out the stars,
replace the bulbs of Jupiter and Mars.
A man like that takes something with him when he dies,
but he has wept the coins that rested on his eyes,
eased out the stopper from the mouthpiece of the cave,
exhumed his own white body from the grave.
Unlock the rivers, hoist the dawn and launch the sea.
Set up the skittles of the orchard and the wood again,
now everything is clear and straight and free and good again.