he wants chrysanthemums at his funeral. he
says roses would darken the room, and capture
away the slatted luminosity, dangling off the Venetian
blinds in the
dour room. he says that

lilies are the quintessence of purity, and after the mishap
of all breathing, it would be a tarnished business, brushing
the makeup of his still bones

with a quiet transparency. he says chrysanthemums grew
over the brambled hedges of his first memories. he says the
oldest ghosts hissed and sputtered

like wettened candles over the undomesticated
hills that he tore his bare legs upon. he says that
all matter comes to an end, and all movement
is merely preparation for rest. he wants to be buried
in the afternoon, on

a wild hill, with cracked stone and wild
chrysanthemums. he is not dead yet. but his eyes
grow large and ill, and photosensitive, and prone
to glowing

like white flowers