Comes afterwards. Like a nurse with a tea tray and a sleeping pill.
Relies on two-no more, no less. Is indivisible.

It cannot be willed, just welcomed. Immune to duty.
Is desired and disbelieved in, equally, like a menopausal pregnancy.

Last night I dreamt a cancer of the retina and a simultaneous cancer of the bowel.
I’d been shitting blood for months, the eye was inoperable.

And there we were, kicking our heels off a house wall under a window sill.
It was summer, suddenly, predictably; we were both restful.

I’m dying, I said, as the pain subsided. You put on sunglasses.
I hope that sooner or later, this side of the divide, or afterwards, this happens.