(3 April 1994) after Alfred Tennyson
When I die I’m going to leave a mess of things behind me. As a shipwreck, all my cargo will be washed upon the shore. Some things could still be useful— sell my tools, my car, my books, and give my shoes to charity, but what about my college papers? Cardboard boxes of notes and poems won’t make it whole to shore; the boxes will open, the ink will wash the pages will stick together Certain people might be sad when I have to go, but whoever has to scavenge my mess from the rocks could be even sadder.