Aubade

Dawn, and shambling house
eaves, sharply etched, seem
reluctant to appear on a
stage so stupendous.
Sky's sheer vault, perpetual
apocalypse, the drama for
which we have no lines.
How many faces, now, look up
as we scuttle abut our
insect heats and longings?
This sky will bathe all
with the same indifferent beauty.

Impassibility, not to feel
nothing, but feeling
everything at a remove so
absolute that the sufferings
of a snapped rose and the
saint are one; yet, unquenchable
Word, you have sat where I
sit, where Everyman sits, or
stands, or loves, or weeps.

Daily dying and corrupt as
I am, let my tobacco smoke
arise as a morning sacrifice.
In this lacuna of idleness let
me gather reaved peace, before
the glittering eyed cares
return with their harsh but
irrefutable edicts, this
my unrecollected but
penitent song.