that night,
       they wrapped me up
in a fine linen sheet. . .
they hefted my body
       up into the boat,
and a good distance away
with no lights from the shore,
no sounds of fishermen,
       they threw it in,
       weighted with stones.

and it sank,
       lifeless—my body—
the bullet wound the final riposte—
and that should have been an end to it,
their action
       a final chapter
              in a grisly affair.

if only I could have kissed them,
saying,
you do not have the power to kill me,
you cannot destroy me,
you cannot subside my laughter. . .
but they are busy men
with no time for
       ghosts of poets
       or delay. . .
Surprisingly,
       I find
       that fish understand. . .
as they start nibbling,
nibbling at the toes of my feet.