She's in labor,
You can tell.
This dream is set free by death
Because only through death can there be definition,
A terminus.

Pangs of fear,
Not work not hapless
But somewhere in between
Where they lay in the experience.

You can tell you're about to be born,
That it's on the other side
That it fills itself and spills and repeats like a swiveling bucket

That good enough for eternity is a terrible thing to be.