"In the first year of my death you brought me roses every day,
Hourly compensating for your bombazine with a new bouquet.
Now my headstone sits forgotten in this graveyard overgrown.
Do not bring me flowers, love, my flesh will grow its own.

I give myself to roses, from toes to ears to thighs.
The lilies take my fingers and the grasses have my eyes.
My old songs hover restlessly; my odes these roots invite;
My phantom tongue still wags though my phantom limbs won't write."