I was not killed in New Mexico But yes you dug my grave No body is buried there I live as an obituary. I was once a good stanza Now a classic tragedy The talk at campus coffee breaks Post mortally examined On google by a sibling. Thirty seven poems I wrote Thirty three unread I wrote them for you With the last one now Which streams down my face. Next year I am Christ age So remember me at Easter When I hold myself with ten nails And smell wood thinking of you. Remember Hampstead with me Though London was never mine What was ever mine? I guess what I've been left with – Ghosts of where we trod.