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...
Read More