If it's for me, it's for everyone

Here’s what made me think of death:
taking cinder from the stove, balanced on a shovel,
shaking the dust over a gravelled
car bay, watching it expand from breath

to mist: a cape unfurled.
I had a feeling that the behaviour
of ash is a flavour
of what to expect from the afterworld.

I cannot remember being born
nor will I remember dying.
Returners recall a tunnel, partially-lit,
but I’m hoping for something more
showy. I’d like to be the dirt in the eye
of a cyclist in the moments before he’s hit.