Sometimes, when I am reading Sebald,
I wonder if this is what it would have been like
for you—if you had been able to see,
and think, feeling no pain, no grief, just
after you were buried. Music of a kind,
the percussive hit of New Hampshire dirt on the
wavy-edged lid of the homegrown home-kilned
pine of your coffin, made lovingly
as a bed for you. Then more quiet,