When my bones shake off this spirit, bury me
in the Valley of the Kings! Let tomb robbers
anoint themselves egyptologists, drink
claret from my skull, eat caviar
from my kneecaps. To them remains the sun
in the sky, its fleet of swift-footed clouds
and itinerant condors. The rainbow
and the aurora, the sleet, hail and shower.
The star and streak of meteor.
Lay me under a tree root,
far below the timberline,
where the path has known only ever shade.
What is the whorl of a galaxy
but a thumbprint? I leave you mine.
