After

I sit on the bed, light off,
blind up, at midnight.
Tonight isn't tonight.
It's the time after the hypothetical
future I used to think of at 3am,
then dismiss as hysteria in the morning.
It's the mythical time,
the never-thought-about time,

after the blackbird sunbathing
after the back of her gown slowly falling open
after noting how tree shadows change
and feeling the change deeply
after catching my breath at thin, quiet light
after bursting in the hospital car park
after thousands of tiny shell shadows on a windy beach
after black ash buds
after orange blanket and singing bell
after anger at the bubble,
at different types of selfishness,
at every woman with hair and breasts
after reality.

The distant gale reverberates through glass like
the aftermath of an argument. The last of the snow
is a secret at the far end of the cul de sac;
it will take some time to melt.