This is that Later, so often mentioned,
Never believed in, but joked about.
This is the Later, the well-intentioned
Promised futures. It’s happening now.
The one last backward, longing look
Before the finality of the first step
(Before the fluttering page of the book
Turns lazily on a specter’s breath)
Takes back the strength of the recent past
And gathers it into the basket of now.
And a life comes down to this at last,
Reduced to the death-cry of a final rage.
Consideration of whether to waver
Died stillborn at the end of an age;
For time’s road ends at the eternity paver,
Where all yesterdays are fused into one.
Walking this road is like driving a car
With the windshield painted black
Your only guidance: the mirrors are.
And you’re stuck in drive, on top of that.
Resolved not to wonder, as is tradition,
Inflexible till comes the spectacular fall.
No one knows that trust is submission
And no one knows how to trust any more.
This is that Later, the one in your eyes
When you closed them and had a colorful dream
About surrender, and compromise,
About the loss of your kingdom and home.
