It's soon time. Put me to flame.
By damn, no king's ransom.
No trip on heaven's air.
Take me west by motorcar.
Scatter me near those folks of mine --
ashes sink soon enough.

I want a pinch of my ash dabbed
on the rim of Horse Thief Canyon.
I'll hear South Wind name who passes into that low ground.
May be one who knew me out of time,
Osage, ridden in from Cimarron.
He'll dance a dark dance, spirit underneath the sun.
He'll chant holy fire and melt time's pass.
He'll leave no print on that red sandstone.

                          •

Canyon and cemetery, we sowed him down
among the old ones, not underground, but with an eye
toward the distant hawk.

He will be petted by the wind and new-patterned by rain
awash in places that give him witness
to weather's refresh and drum,
remembrance of a burning man.