There is no secret to dying;
most go still and quiet.

There are probably people in
London, in Paris, in Moscow
who are waiting for their heads to ring
with the songs of the dead.

Wing, fly. Sing, die.

There are probably people
who push their knees together
under the table,
who pour cream in their coffee
and refuse to stir,
who lean forward, part their lips,
offer an invitation.

But I am not one of those people.