by Tim Gilmore, 6/24/1974

I’ll investigate and write my reports for another year, or five years, or 25 or 50.

Place extends out, as time reaches back, and shadowy figures conduct business made mysterious by the distances of both.

And when I’m dead, my headstone will tour this city. My epitaph will constitute the town.

And the secrets readers didn’t think to find in my writings while I was yet alive, the explorers and doctoral students will decode and decipher for the next several centuries.

An urban farmer will exhume my skull and plant beans where my eyes had been. I will see everything again. And I’ll know better how to say it.