//death and buried
Dead and Buried: Repost as Fear of Burial
Thinking about death and being buried,
cannot help but make me feel worried.
I am now and then visited,
have my calm thoughts disquieted,
by dislike and fear of what is ahead.
Among the legions of the dead,
I find - especially on a rainy day
at a funeral - that I, with dismay,
flinch appalled at the thought
of my friend in that wet plot.
I tell myself they do not know -
still, I feel some vertigo.
I fear death, but know I have to die,
and since I do I’d rather lie
(neither boxed so I’ll mummify,
nor flamed to ash, then spread like lye)
recycling under a coverlet
of lavender and violets
in a garden thick with rosemary,
sweetness that is salutary,
like Rupert Brooke, poet sublime,
who, scythed by war, lies under thyme.
Ms. Smithington spent the night out
found next day she’d married a lout
but since she already
had married her steady
she’s a bigamist, out-and-out.