by Emily Dickinson
I HEARD a fly buzz — when I died–
the stillness in the room
was like the stillness in the air —
between the heaves of storm —
The eyes around — had wrung them dry —
and breaths were gathering firm
for that last onset — when the King
be witnessed — in the room —
I willed my keepsakes — signed away
what portion of me be
assignable — and then it was
there interposed a fly —
with blue — uncertain stumbling buzz —
between the light — and me —
and then the windows failed — and then
I could not see to see —