who’s most afraid of death?  thou
           &nbs p;           &n bsp;                       art of him
utterly afraid, i love of thee
(beloved) this

           &nbs p;       and truly i would be
near when his scythe takes crisply the whim
of thy smoothness.  and mark the fainting
murdered petals.  with the caving stem.

But of all most would i be one of them

round the hurt heart which do so frailly cling… .
i who am but imperfect in my fear

Or with thy mind against my mind, to hear
nearing our hearts’ irrevocable play—
through the mysterious high futile day

an enormous stride
           &nbs p;           &n bsp;  (and drawing thy mouth toward

my mouth, steer our lost bodies carefully downward)

[poem is “who’s most afraid of death? thou art of him” by e.e. cummings]