Aubade

In the morning the sun’s limp yellow light
creeps sullenly into the dark-filled room;
particle by particle its bright-
ness takes shape; it fails to dispel a gloom

of more than night.  Cracked eyes and stirring flesh,
bedclothes cast aside; mumbled greetings, minds
a-whir; the day conspires to enmesh
them, like the old.  Slipstreamed time too fleeting—

bathe! dress! eat!—nothing settled from before;
the looming day a welcome eight hours’ break
from things unsaid but thought.  Best not to bare
words better left silent; just go and make

a life of sorts, like everyone they know:
work, distract, suffer through that little blow.

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