On the first day, I didn’t know
it was the first day.
The second, third and fourth passed.
And on the eighth day something
remarkable, but I didn’t tell anyone.
Remarkable, and I didn’t know.
I noted some markers like weekends
and seasons, anonymous months.
No one else attended every day of
the long long time but some noticed
the unclenching. Evening and morning
came, the 90th day. Some days later,
in an afternoon walk, beauty opened
and I inhaled. Religion preceded
and followed and did no harm,
but the weight of a carapace and
a quietly sober dream (Cain’s wandering?)
offered commentary on death.
So dying is essentially part of it,
not killing. And dying essentially
the most beautiful song.
After ten thousand days,
I knew the counting would never end,
but this interest in ordinary time sustains
itself in a still thirsty soul.
