There's a fly buzzing around up here, but at least it wasn't in the bedroom this morning at the moment of my petit mort, which if it had been, I wouldn't have been able to cross over, and live.

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The most stark cinematic poem ever - pre-cinema - unadorned fragment that starts at the apex of highest drama - a deathbed scene, as viewed & rendered in its entirety from the point of view of the about-to-be deceased - sudden vivid vision going black - as with a reel projector spooled out of film. This poem blows me away, with its immediacy and clarity, capturing - elliptically - a fleeting brief moment, as in a recorded dream.

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#465, by E.D.
I heard a Fly buzz-- when I died--