Someone Like the Christ Who Cleansed the Temple Speaks from the Tomb

When I am gone, dead gone, have left behind

My scribblings, then these sonnets left alone

Without me . . ., will they be no more than rind?

Perhaps they will become a posted clone

Of me, or of a part of me, of soul

And mind, . . . iambic, rhyming part of me,

A coded part of me, though not the whole;

A scholar with some serendipity

Might find the missing bits between the lines,

The parts that drove me in my unrhymed bed.

By digging deeply in the sonnets’ signs

This academic might determine where I bled.

  But will he see me there among the wreck

    That they record?  Or will they be just dreck?