when i am dead, i want you, darling,
to place a buffalo (from the fermi herd)
in room seven of dorthy's motel on 103rd
so the old man with a mop would see
and you would tell him of the man that i was
out of habit you may even blow him
with closed eyes and a sentimental chin
scrubbing death with your tongue like a horse
i want you never to return, not even
in the moments between rent and blowing
in the terror of the last cigarette
i want you to always be on the verge of leaving
in honor of my proud corpse, glowing
with your chest on mine, glued by regret