Humming from my grave, I kick the stone box 
open, shake free terminal feathers. I’m tired
of being dead, regret my final acts, the swan 
serenade, yellow pills and a long neck cut 
short on breath. Wisteria unbutton
when I pass, lavender ashes tumbling
into my hair and eyes. I want to watch
that great ball of light marry itself to water,
the sea bleeding red through my soul’s three point 
perspective. Thank you for archiving my work
at the Yale Contemporary Collective
and not some dank basement where lonely clouds 
can’t hear me sing. I linger late and no
one tries to find me, bring me avocado sandwiches 
or a rope to swing myself through dimming
shade. It’s warm and stark as a broken halo
here. Nothing to fear. I bend my paintings
into sails, shellac until one stiffens,
and stapled like that, surf the ghosting dark.
I could hang a happy man except I’ve
already fled—mute thread frayed and thinned to 
framed black. I float the lit up sky, striking 
sections with glimmering tips, my fine mani-
cured nails, or flip it without warning and brush 
the whole thing off, just like I did my life.