Laid in a coffin under quiet earth,
that quiet earth, with nothing more beyond
the blooming flowers, grass and graven skies;
there, Silence, brooding at my side
in the soil, in the rotting wooden lid,
in worms that nibble at my swollen flesh,
pale in death —
but how to pass the time?
I’ll decide the sexes of flowers, perhaps,
or listen for birdsong in the black night,
or marry a crow in a garlanded church,
or try to light a candle with my eyes
that blink no more,
or simply dream away,
dreaming as my skull bites through my skin —
my clothes of flesh are vanishing.