After I died, I remembered the jar

of money, big and crammed with leafy

greens, buried in the backyard beside


the dog asleep in the sun, a bumblebee

buzzing about her head then

off like a pulse down the inflamed


throat of a magnolia blossom.

I crouched in the throat

of the infinite, and my form's spent


pocket huddled under the casket's

satin lid, the loose change of my rages

and doldrums floating free


in the waves of nothing, learning new

currency. Mourners trod about the lawn,

pinching little plastic cups of wine


with plates of lobster salad on romaine

like rhododendron blossoms, women's

heels sinking into the mud, all


talking zeros and ones, recombinant

genes, a wadded cocktail napkin

with a smear of lipstick dropped


onto the lawn remotely to kiss

the earth goodbye, while time

unclenched and space dug deeper.


Places I've Been

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