I do not want to die indoors,
my final taste of bleach,
my last scent of just mopped floor.
Lay me by a shore, in a field,
beside a weathered stone--
even a garden hose will do--
anywhere please, just get me out
from behind closed doors.
I would break a window if I could
and crawl out to the nearest wood
to let my eyes open
one last time on
something green, immense,
something born,
where I can mulch with those
already gone,
where stars can clearly see
what's become of me
and once again reach out
to gather
my remaining matter.
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