Death's in the good-bye.
I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.