Waking

The WILD Magazine poetry
Garry Winogrand, New Mexico, 1957.

The day’s entrance. Its persuasive encouragement,
even coming out the night it was bore from.
Enough is enough, and you with half-closed eyes
amble to a shielded window where your dystrophic
fingers pull back the thick curtain to find the day,
breathing silently behind a pain of glass.

You try with a worthy effort to look it in the eye
but know, if too keenly you look, it will
stare you out of your own mind.
So you squint your eyes and recoil your head,
walk to the bathroom where light can be turned off.

And in your seeming absence, the day, eager
and less patient than any night you ever knew,
begins with grace to saturate the interior:
etching your reflection into mirrors and
waking those in whom you see yourself;
forging onto pages all you are to write in coming hours;
ripening the fruit left out on the countertop.

Its translucent fingers lay down rugs of shadow
to remind you that it will all be over soon,
despite the unbearable omnipresence that says
you must fill the day with doing as of yet undone.

And if that light, by some unearthly disposal
became bright enough, you might one day
be able to sleep through it.

text by: Bianca Ozeri










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