If I die in the jungle,
among the rot produced by ubiquitous living,
among the fragrant green and surging noise--
--my God, the noise--
               then I live on in the ants that
                        section up my skin
                                 to carry
                                    back
            to colony and queen , in soil or up trees.
I live on in the green--hidden, but insistent,
a well kept secret, in the chlorophyll.

I live on in the jungle.

If I die on the tundra,
then, first, it's the foxes, with their
seasonal shade shifting, who will then make
               more foxes.
And, then, it's the scavenging bears (of either hue, earth or ice).
And, finally they'll find me, the microbes,
                         though they'll take their time.

I live on, on the tundra.

If I die in the desert,
parched, withered, mummified,
not more than anomaly among tiny grains,
then, still, the wandering jackal
               --observing protocol--
          will pay her visit and, with me, provide;
          gaping, yawning mouths in hot wind
                         receiving against backdrop
                              of endless, shaking
                                           sky.

I live on in the desert.

But, if, in wandering familiar street maps,
in frequenting my favored haunts, and
               in daily rendering,
     I am forgotten by those I love,
               and who best love me,--
          if my imprint fades for them...

...then dead do I walk upright.