I do not want to die indoors.
My last air smelling
of just mopped floors.
No.
Set me on a meadow, please.
Lay me near a field or shore.
Never, never please, oh please
behind a door.
I would break a window if I could.
And crawl out to the nearest
wood
so in the end my eyes could 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
and gather my remaining matter.
