Saturday, March 21, 2020

My Cemetery

Like New York it does not
wait for me. But when
I die I hope a friend
if I’ve still got one
will bestrew my
stash of ashes
through the iron
posts that form its
gate for me. Anywhere
upon the grass or mud or
snow will do. I love it like
I love this city - for its lack
of pity and its fine oblivion.
Obsidian and platinum must
be its favored substances,
they're what it would
be made of if it were
a pendant round a neck.
Black absorbs, platinum
reflects. Just like the moon
at midnight when it genuflects.

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