I'll follow the second, the next poem that follows immediately
after.
This false desire for life, as I enjoy the sight of
leaves turning brown, red, orange
against the clear blue sky.
The leaves waving the wind, to urge me to falsehood.
To make myself a chanter of life.
A bar to cause and others to live, for the glory of living.
I'm tempted, but I refuse.
I think death has its pleasures.
That I surmise from the dead, who lie very still.
Strictly attentive to each syllable and motion
of their death, as it attends on them.
Stretched out like children under the hypnotic
crooning of the mother.