when i die, i hope
it is the loudest and most
unnoticed passing in the world.
i hope there will still be birds
making love on the veranda
and things like tea and children
and francis poulenc.
most of all, i hope you will be
miles away by then, across the sea
in a little flanders field of your own.
i could hope for the whole event
to slip quietly by,
but you will know.
somehow you'll know exactly
when it happens, and if so
i hope you will help me
close the eyes of the poetry
still collecting there in my hands.
where the wild things grow,
wherever you are, remind me
with every last inch of voice
about how we were once
as brilliant and slender
as that one summer sky
and i will hear you,
i promise
i will hear you