I want to die at my writing desk
as Harrison did, offering his
one-eye body to what Gods
would have it, but only after
writing ’til his soul was empty;
he would have written more
had he more time (which he
didn’t); he would have written
more letters to that Russian poet
who hung by his neck in a Leningrad
hotel, a poet who wrote with blood
since he had no ink (I think that’s why
Harrison loved him so) – all why I
want to die at my writing desk. 
    
                                      — also for Sergei Yesenin