What does it mean that the body
goes on wanting – wanting –
past all sense, past reason,
the body worn out, waiting to die.
Blind responses quiver at a touch,
frantic fervor sweeps the ruined hulk.
What sense is there
in such a useless spectacle.
A decorous dying ought to
follow a quiet path,
muting the nerves and dimming all desire.
How cruel to flare
as all staggers into darkness.