after I'm gone you won't read 
the five or six thousand books I've left behind...
come to think of it neither will I.

perhaps after I’m gone you might scan 
the five or six hundred chapters I've written...
that might begin to have made sense...
come to think of it I know it won't.

maybe perhaps you may remember 
the fifty or sixty chiseled phrases I've left beyond
that might touch you like it still touches me
come to think of that was and still is my intent...

maybe perhaps after I’m left heart spaced
the five or six secret lives I’ve left healed
more than any words would suffice...
come to think of I never had any other intent...