"Long ago I began to collect a funeral pyre of corpses to follow in my wake," writes James Thomas Fletcher.

Here are poems "Dressed in garments of farewell, bon voyage for a ticket purchased long ago." Stroll through this private cemetery with shadows beside the path. To "graves where sorrow eats its own body and joy is ever tarnished with guilt." Where unfinished hangs in the air. Read these tombstones of tribute, the poet's "sad things to grace their coffins."

Death I never noticed thee
though you have always been here
as shadows on my path.