that, first thing
in the morning,
all who re-arrive,
at that instant,
to their bodies
swear that they know
what it's like
to be old, when
simply by finding themselves
there
all together
(whether or not they
voluntarily chose
to rise;
whether to an impish sun
blithely spilling its brightness
on water,
or to the muted
pall of rain out beyond
their windowpane),
the riser doesn't just
bear witness to the dawning;
they participate in it,
comprising, with a
yawn, the very essence of startling
re-arrival:
just for a moment,
to have done
nothing wrong, since
every shining thing
is young.
