Death does not

  Death does not creep up
  like a sweat upon the collar, a thick rim
  round the porcelain basin,
  or scurf in the ham-boiled pan.

  It is a strand of silver
  thread through a black button,
  a knot in the heart
  surrendered to love
  by a parlour-maid in a garden
  one evening when the lilies
  burn with white desire.

  The whirlwind does not
  extinguish its blaze:
  there is nothing but
  a forgetful spark
  on a tourniquet of diamonds.

From the book Looks Familiar