Meanwhile, Your lungs collapsed, and the machine, unstrained, Did all your breathing now. Nothing remained But death by drowning on an inland sea Of your own fluids, which it seemed could be Kindly forestalled by drugs. Both could and would: Nothing was said, everything understood, At least by us. Your own concerns were not Long-term, precisely, when they gave the shot —You made local arrangements to the bed And pulled a pillow round beside your head. And so you slept, and died, your skin gone grey, Achieving your completeness, in a way.
Outdoors next day, I was dizzy from a sense Of being ejected with some violence From vigil in a white and distant spot Where I was numb, into this garden plot Too warm, too close, and not enough like pain. I was delivered into time again —The variations that I live among Where your long body too used to belong And where the still bush is minutely active. - Thom Gunn, Lament