It's not, dear Death, then I'm afraid to meet 
you yet, but rather than I'd like to be 
prepared, you know, leave nothing incomplete, 
have time to dot my ‘I’s, to cross each ’t’ 
and tidy up my final manuscript—
(the sneaking thought occurs that I might then 
make late amendments, even have it ripped
to shreds, beg time to write it all again). 
It's not that I'm afraid of you at all, 
no, just that all the deaths I've known have left 
so much unsaid, unchronicled, the small 
important things; and guilt in those bereft.
    I do not ask that you defer my day 
    but Death, do send me first your e.t.a.