A wise person [1]
once gave me this advice:
Never throw a word away.
Even if neglected, gathering dust on a shelf,
at any moment it might become
exactly what you want to say.

When I finish writing a poem,
I bury it in a quiet place
with the epitaph,
“If you are reading this,
you are the first to understand.”
Poets are time travelers, scattering
their secrets across the centuries. [2]

Do not be surprised if you find me on the floor;
I tell you the whole world is my bed,
and everyone is in my bedroom.
My body is just a footnote,
and before you resume the ritual of living,
bury me along with my words. [3]


[1] Leonard Bernstein

[2] Wallace Stevens, “A Postcard from the Volcano” from Collected Poems