The hornet knocks its head against the hard glass,
Flowers bright and friendly on the far frame,
Still and sullen air, and screams, on this side.
“Kill it! Kill it!” she cries (as against the curtain it caroms),
Motioning to me to arm myself with a magazine.
Waving the issue before me, I waver:
Evolved from millions of pairings for this ending?
“It will sting you!” she says, but I am already stung:
Trembling, I press it against the pane with Time.