Sonnet #215

When we die we rest in a little version of home

Those city dwellers combust in urns and crowds

Or pile their bones in catacombs that rattle loud

where cars drive over the underworld paving stones

Surburbanite, you will lie in a green grass plot

The form and material of your tombstone will be approved

And men will come to mow the grass, and beloved

will lie together yet in separate rooms, as lived as bought

Where I die lay no memorial stone except as trees

I will be as rooted in death as the rootless

who fall in the fields unmourned, but for me

The green of living will sing of my giving; Unless

you hold these rowdy and unnamed places holy,

You don’t hold me: My Legacy, my Ghost Purposes

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