Ise a maker of pots, 
bricks and poetry, 

but I don’t know what to make of dis, 
’cause you never dead to me. 

Dis ground don’t know you. 
Dis grave can’t hold you like I do. 

Stone and cross marks yo spot, 
but dey can’t speak. 

Can’t say your name 
wid de heat of my lips. 

Dese thangs heah:
teacup dat yo lips touched, 

pots my hand molded, just be tokens
of de love we done built. 

Death be liar and a thief, 
but can’t steal what I be carryin for you. 

Ise be yo marker, cause Ise be de one
you mark yo time wid. 

Earth be a circle and my minds always 
comin back round to you. 

Ise yo witness and yo amen.
I be de deepest pot holding you. 

Dis good-bye ain’t gone
cause as long as I’m takin in air—

yo memory 
got plenty of breath.