I had imagined death thrillingly:
my arms held behind to restrain their frivolous occasions,
the whole of me bending
like a tall yellow lily before you.

Yet see how my hands go on with their thoughts.
See how I fold and fold my handkerchief.

I am not a great lady.
I don't swoon with love.

My stricken, I cannot render you as you
move quickly toward your skillful execution,
your shoulders tossing their indifference to the dark,
your face overlaid with stage effects.
You grow irresistibly small. Your hands and feet expire.
This is where sculpture also fails, this is where I turn
wholly unattached and without debt.

What is the use of crowning you in glory?

Now my fingers make bowls for rain: in your honor: hope for nothing.
We knew our disposition long ago.