The Work Undone

Five in the morning
has always been my time
though I haven’t seen it
in a while. Sick as
a sputtering candle, 
sleepy as the old dog
I am, I’ve been keeping
less funereal hours of late
as once it gets dark
this body says go, sleep; 
get used to it, soon enough
this is all you will have.

So to bed
after dinner I go, hating
myself for succumbing.
But somehow the graceful lamp
of Work Undone
relit itself tonight and now
before dawn I am here: back at it;
uncertain of the time left;
I am here aroused
into sword time
with the old weapon of choice
at hand. I ask:

what am I supposed
to do now, dimming body —
pretend to joy
while I stare at despair? 

It shouldn’t be a pretense,
retorts the body half-lit before 
the Work Undone.  So much to do
before you drown. You are
out of the dark and joy is
out here, somewhere, waiting;
pretense is for false warriors. Go.
You are not
allowed to fade without 
at least making a stab
at finding it.