It would be picturesque to go
Against a marigold sky up in smoke
With glee-inflamed logs, a Brahmin’s heedless
Mantra and stench-killing incense.
So release oneself
To another incarnation, to be cast
In a final handful to
A river clogged with washed out sins.
Or one could slide into
An incinerator and come out packed
In a box, to be forgotten in an attic
Or disposed hurriedly of in a plot.
It would be colorful to go
Gonged down long streets with wailing
Relatives in sacks and gaudy paper houses,
Cardboard cars by the yard
And money in wads,
Paper pagodas to light joss-sticks in,
And all luxuries
Fire could burn to another world.
To be left for vultures to pick
At leisure, leaving only
A shovel full of bones on the tower
Would be silent perpetuation.
Or one could credit All to an archaeologist.
For millennium’s stand almost like oneself,
Painted, attended, surrounded by serpent richness.
But the cleanest, cheapest way
Is to be buried where nothing irks,
Where grass covers, the berry sends
Down roots and the worm world works.
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