Five foot eleven, twelve stone, sixty-three,
I lie in the bath and look at the apple-tree
And the apples dawdling into rubicundity
To blend with the old brick wall’s well-weathered red.
Already, and all ready, I feel dead:
The tub, no longer a limp invalid’s warm bed,
Is a dank coffin, my flesh wrinkled fruit
For the birds, who pretend to be irresolute
But eviscerate like pterodactyls. Absolute
For death now, voyeur, écouteur, I long
To see, hear, be their breakfast – no more wrong
Or right at last, just method, satisfaction, song.