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Bury me with my books.
Slip one under my head:
a satin pillow's much too soft
for such a rigid bed.

Bury me with my books.
Open some on my chest,
their pages shadowing the heart
beginning its long rest.

Bury me with my books,
tossed in until the hole
is filled with words instead of dirt
and I am like a mole

happy to stay hidden,
not needing light to see
that paper heaven made by hands,
the books that buried me.

Michael McFee

By Michael McFee