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.