Maybe it's not a feeling.
Maybe in the morning
the whole thing
really does start over.
Maybe those are new birds
content to sing
in the cheap seats,
unclassified iterations of cloud,
whose shapes are drifting,
then breaking apart
without a whisper,
and indescribable
patches of shadow
tangled up in bushes and
in between the parked cars,
slowly dissolving
in patient antiseptic sun.
And maybe none of these things
are metaphors
for anything of ours—
no emotions, however
flighty, dark, or terrible;
no thoughts of regret
or last night's abject failures
need be displaced by these
clean tugs of wind.
All of that
seems to come later,
when one of us
finally blunders out there,
so newborn
as to be oblivious to
the very newness
of the universe we're in.
