On the day that I died I had no memories in
my head that were my own.
They had been passed along to others
in order to keep them occupied
while I did more important things.
That is to say, I thought I did.
On the day that I died, I had no body,
that I left to someone else long ago
who liked it more than I did.
Especially my nose.
One the day that I died my hair
was woven into a gleaming rug
for those that I loved
to tread on.
But I asked for this to happen.
On the day that I lived,
birds stopped their
and watched me walk past
with a crown of blooming hands
encircling my head.