As it is true that I, like all, must die,
I crave that death may take me unawares
At the very end of some transcendent day;
May creep upon me when I least suspect,
And, with slick fingers light as feather tips,
Unfasten every little tenuous bolt
That held me all my years to this illusion
Of flesh and blood and air and land and sea.
I’d have death work meticulously too –
Splitting each moment into tenths of tenths,
Replacing each infinitesimal fragment
Of old dream-stuff with new.
So subtly will the old be shed
That I’ll dream on and never know I’m dead.