When I Am Dead, I Will Not Be Gone
When I am dead, I will not be gone.
I will be dead. Death is not a destination,
nor a vehicle to a destination. It’s not
a taxi we hail, not a flight we board
at the last breath of lungs, not a bicycle
we pedal through a sudden bucolic
landscape of the past where long-mourned
gaits and stances are glimpsed in the shade
under distant trees. All that remains of me
or you will be ash or decay-inhibited flesh
boxed and buried, stashed as if some use
for it might remain—that and, perhaps,
an occasionally coherent pattern of neurons
flickering, fading in another’s brain.