The problem is that
it happens too fast
to make any
sense of it, so each day,
you forget
the way morning light,
so golden and kind
makes the most
vulgar things
sing hymns—
highlighting each
branching vein
on each leaf
and both quickening
and slowing time,
til the past
and its future
don't just harmonize
but practically seem
to sing in one voice—
such wizardry as this
take the piss
on forever,
and your soul (unbeknownst
to you, of course)
again picks mortality
as the vastly
superior choice.
