Buried underground
in my sarcophagus
wrapped in stone
I worry about 1,089
poems I’ve left behind
that needed revisions.
It wasn’t my intention
to reveal all the faults
of every friend I ever had
or ridicule the hypocrisies
of wise men I got to know.
Clutching a bag of diamonds,
Catherine de Medici knocks
on my stone overcoat, and
invites me to join her in an
escape plan that might allow us
to fix the anarchy of the world.