At Daylight

Daylight. Lack of
interest. Lack of
desire to see it
through.

Sit here and think
of not-thinking. Think
of little. It’s not thinking
of a void; more like

each thought is broken
willfully off of the previous
one, or the subsequent
one; sit here with

evil, impartial daylight. You know
you are supposed to feel uplifted — not so;
you aren’t; are adrift
or stationary in a river of thought.

Do you have what you need,
all of it, every scrap of it? Doubtful;
daylight ought to be complete
in itself and it isn’t

that. An occasion for
mourning, perhaps, at the close
of dawn. Thus beginning the ordinary
lit hours, you bend your head and moan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T