When I’d picture my death, I would be lying on my back,and my spirit would rise to my belly-skin and outlike a sheet of wax paper the shape of a girl, furlover from supine to prone and like the djinn’scarpet begin to fly, low,over our planet—heaven to beunhurtable, and able to see withoutcease or stint or stopperage,to lie on the air, and look, and look,not so different from my life, I would besheer with an almost not sore loneless,looking at the earth as if seeing the earthwere my version of having a soul. But thenI could see my beloved, sort of standingbeside a kind of door in the sky—not the door to the constellations,to the pentangles, and borealis,but a tidy flap at the bottom of the door in thesky, like a little cat-door in the door,through which is nothing. And he is saying to me that he mustgo, now, it is time. And he does notask me, to go with him, but I feelhe would like me with him. And I do not thinkit is a living nothing, where nonbeingscan make a kind of unearthly love, Ithink it’s the nothing kind of nothing, I thinkwe go through the door and vanish together.What depth of joy to take his arm,pressing it against my breastas lovers do in a formal walk,and take that step.