On the Death from Consumption of Anton Chekov in a German Hotel Room, 1904

A telephone’s insistent scratch
  or a large black moth
  hammering away at a shutter

From the sitting room a
  champagne cork’s
  sudden shot

Or

A syringe emptying its sleeve
  of camphor into
  Anton Pavlovich’s

  ribcage

The window wide open
  to darkening woods, bird-chatter, the scent
  of cut hay

Or to empty streets, a drunk’s
  sing-song banter

And on Anton’s chest, splinters of ice
  wrapped in a damp towel
  by a sleepy porter, his top two
  buttons unlooped

Or

By the ponderous doctor
  with a dense moustache, pressing
  a champagne’s cut-glass stem
  into Anton’s feverish palm