I had no grave, nor would I ever, I suspected,
Since I never existed, but I liked to visit
My grave once a week in the rain. Small,
Like a child's grave or one reserved
For ashes in an urn, a piece of gold leaf
Where the tongue had been, Orphic
Advice to the ashes about what to do after,
That sort of a spot, good also for a dead cat,
It nonetheless moved me, the lush grasses
And the millennium-old yew trees stooped,
Still growing around the plaque I could cover
With one hand. Here lies I, speaker of verse,
Believer in the immortality of patterns
Of words. It was surprisingly verbose
For such a tiny commemoration, how fitting.
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