Hemingway claimed 
every man has two deaths: 
in the dirt, then in the minds — 
I raise him a third: 

my being amounts to five feet, 
my things, likely a five by five room, 

but my hair clings to combs, carpets, clothes,
my sloughed-off cells swirl in dust, 
my sweat and spit stick 
to grass blades and pillow cases, 
bike chains and mug rims, 

my nail indents sit in pins, pen caps, stress balls, 
my blood resides in sink pipes,
my fingerprints linger
on table edges and book pages,
flower stems and light switches.  

The heavens marked my departure, 
nature nesting my ends and starts,
and as the earth holds me, 
as you once held me and I held you, 
I owe the earth my embrace;

though I may stay a skeleton under stones, 
my name, a whisper in scant memories, 

trust, Hemingway, 
that my touch is tethered: 
in dirt, minds, and indents — 
I persist in echoes.