do not gather flowers for me,

a black cadillac first, a hundred—
a buick will do if old enough
it’s all about the body
& what its bore anyway
line them up—out front
let the chrysanthemums
roses & carnations
out each window

make it magnificent

rev the engines—

until they are voiceless
until there is no gas
left in the cylinders

until a mushroom cloud
of grey-black exhaust can be seen
from the heavens

anything this large
& dying
must have god’s attention