One dreary winter‘s day

I might at last be ready

To leave this heated shell

And lavishly start salting

The frozen streets of love.

Like Satan᾽s tiny insect pet,

After dozing God knows where,

For days, persumably, or weeks,

Is suddenly — just — there;

Death, by a buzzing, soft sensation,

Insists on its existence

And — if it should choose to stay —

On the illusion of resistance.