Every morning you emerge
as if the greater part of youhad had to be imagined new.
It’s true, a malleable
substance with your smell
and hue most probably survives
the night: amorphous impulses,
proclivities and certain kinds
of reflex sight and fear
are probably in gear: you have
a sense, perhaps, of being
something you’d call “here.”
But then you’ve got to go
about the business of inhabiting
the clay, and forming something
that’s at least remotely equal
to encountering “today.” You do
what you can do. Strange
to feel you have so little say.
You seem to happen anyway.
.
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