The black coffee
is a singularity giving birth to a universe,
the horizon on fire with newfound glory.
Evening and morning, the first day.
The Tower of Babel is switched off, the
cloistered mind preserved.
I do not need to know the latest recipe
for crepes
or why the Pilate instructor sailed around
the world.
Vanity vanity—all is vanity. Silence is
the message.
An army of shadow soldiers appears at ten
o’clock,
but it practices formations as on a parade
ground, nothing more.
A bird in the elm sings melodies with the
same joy
as a woman cleaning her three-room apartment
on the fifth floor of a tenement, the
window open,
because her husband is out of prison and
on the way home.
I notice everyday objects around the house
at noon,
a marble whale, a brass pot, and a row of
twenty books
on the shelf, each holding a parallel
universe of probability.
In the afternoon I do nothing but observe the
passage of time,
the change of light, and the chiming of
the clock on the mantel.
It seems the world is moving on and has
been doing so
ever since dew flew from the grass hours
ago
like geese fleeing the marsh for some high
and mighty sky.
The dark soldiers who called it quits at
midday
have returned, now on a mission to close
the whole thing down.
Ten birds make a final stand on the
telephone wire
while crickets observe vespers, chanting
on cue
with the falling of the sun. It is night,
and I have scribbled a few lines of verse,
written a grocery list
that will soon be out of print, and posted
several reminders to myself,
The universe, I presume, will come
sweeping along tomorrow.
Somewhere along the line I read the
newspaper,
which kept world events at just the right
distance from concern.
I even caught a glimpse of myself out the
corner of my eye.
Every hour was sacred, every minute lived
with grace,
though I have the feeling that a few
slipped by without notice.
I don’t know what more anyone could ask
for.
~William Hammett
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