Scatter me then in June
when the locusts next trill
under blue-bottomed clouds
in the signaling sun
at the end of a dream in the air
over this rising field
with its spittle and daisies
pierced by a hundred small birds
and the grasses twitching with hoppers
walled on all sides by the woods
thick with the songs of its lives
all i wanted was to stay.
—after checking on arrangements for my own cremation.
