It's odd that you are loved when you are dead--
The body rots, is cold and decomposing
While you are loving me. The dirt's enclosing
All but the memory of me--unwed
Without divorce--the soul inside my head
Lives on in yours, in paper fragments prosing
And poeming my soul, refined, exposing
My self that in this world I would embed.
The unity of me is freed in death
And I am left in fragments, memories
In others' heads that may not match, in rhyme
And rhythm, supple sounds that caught my breath
In marks that freeze my soul and, freezing, frees
Me to eternal life and endless time.