At night, when the mouse
is murdered by cheese,
when the tired walls turn away,
when the body can’t stand anymore,
then death parts my hair
and I don’t want to die.
I don’t want to die!

The asthma weeps.
The asthma burns in its leaves.
The medicines consult,
aware of their labels,
by the bed.

But death comes:
out of the faucets, the floors,
from the big clock that bleeds
weakening in its springs,
it comes shoveling out my chest.
And I don’t know why
but I know the heart beats
and beats a man to death.

1960

 = Sarah Kobrinsky