Don't put my ashes
on the mantle
beside the two-point buck's
antler and the terra cotta
Colima dancing dogs.
Or the wind-up
tin alligator.
Just mix me
with some of the
Camel ashes
that led
to my demise.
Pour them into Miller Creek,
make a vanishing
gray plume
where me and Bobby
smashed open a can
of Hamm's beer
with a pointed rock
when we were eight.
Or let the wind
sift me on the serpentine
at Barthe's Retreat
at the feet
of the dwarf cypress trees
where the lizards
bask and flash
their blue bellies.
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