I know flowers are what you’re supposed to put here
      but you don’t remind me of flowers.

I could work the cord of a short-wave radio into the dirt,
      or a wrench from your tool kit.

It’s gone. All of it. The Cadillac. The house on Falkirk.
      Your wife’s crumbling brain.

And now as I shed the snakeskin built up in my eyeballs,
      I try to make long, thin tears

that will slice through the soil like nails and penetrate
      the roof of your capsule. Six feet

under is not so deep. I could shovel you up in a matter
      of hours. You must be so pale. A blast

of sunlight would scald you. Twenty-two years. I wonder
      if there’s a mark on your skull where

the bullet went in. I don’t want much. Just one of your ribs.
      I won’t wear it around my neck

or anything. Maybe the finger you pulled the trigger with
      to drag through my hair.