ciphered throughout our brains; our We,
our
Us, our I; the thing we whisper
night-
time pleas and stories to. The hub

of
feeling and of knowing and of

self.
You could have (sort of) eternal
life,
let it be imaged in software
and
built into your grave site. You’d be
long
expired, but your encoded
soul

might remain to tell your stories
or
damn your enemies. To confess
un-
love of your family or warn
of

those fatal mistakes. To pronounce
wise
edicts and foolish rules. And some
nights,
there’d be me there, listening for
you.

Spoon River’s legacy is here,
in
xerox-constructed epitaphs.