A person can’t really be certain
When it was they found themselves awake
Beneath or amidst the convolutions you just know it
As recognition of what all is always being lost

In the yellow shrub of the bloomed forsythia
A robin sings in the thin wax of morning
The stretched clear awareness bands around
A self and the passing clouds then recalled

There as happened to be something
Between the sudden rings of the alarm clock
A final edge of a knife as clear as the shape of air
Of absence with a presence because the end is missing

Holes left from the night sky out of sight
In an eye aware that it is an unseen sphere
Not calculating but aligned with apparent dimensions
And in daylight a sun that too is an endlessness

The windows which know the clean cold of old frost
From when hunger was learned to be lived with
A stone being better in the garden rather than on a plate
The breakfast also is there as good as it disappears

And after even before both feet touch the ground
We fatefully begin our additions and changes to the day
With an access the steps taken become completely ours
Lost in the grass or home that will someday not be there.

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