Please bury me
In a Danish Bog
Though the Bogs
Of Northern Ireland
Or the Netherlands‘
Bogs would do
Just place me there
A rope around my body
And neck
My hands bound
To a hard copy of
My poems
Encased in the
Time Capsule of an
Airplane‘s ‘Black Box‘
Emptied of all voice data
But mine and
Orange as the
Aphrodite waves
of the Yde Girl‘s hair.
There
My poems grasped
Or not
Stay in my hands
And shall keep forever
In my vision of forever
Become the Yde Girl
Returned to her
Home in the Bog.