Note to Self
after César Vallejo
I will die in a German country house
on a day the telephone does not ring.
I will die with the lattice windows open
to the whirr of insects and musk
of chrysanthemums. It will be a Sunday, for
they are never good. I will taste the succulent
plum a friend gave me, and for a moment
will not want to die, and so will stop eating.
Naomi Hamilton has died; she never
once heard the barley wine voice of God,
not like others stooping to gather
leftover grain from the stubble. Instead,
she lay down in the field and tried
to count the crows circling the sun.
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