We sat side by side, watching the sun recede
Knowing, with a kind of resigned assurance, that we would never
what had happened today.
Your look—and I have never seen you look so wise!—said,
“If I could carry the sun and sky, or even the gravel
Between my fingers, into tomorrow, I would
But in all honesty I would ask for nothing else but the clarity
In my heart, lungs, mind, in the ability to speak without trembling
But I know, as those attending spirits told me,
That I would never remember tomorrow
What has happened today.”
“Do you resent them then? Will you claw at their doorstep
And snarl, short-tempered, for satiation
When they deny you tomorrow
What they have granted today?”
“Perhaps,” you replied with mystifying composure, “But
That will be tomorrow. It is not my inclination today
To contest the ways of spirits.”
“So you do not dread,” I said,
To be thrust back into your mortal coil
And, blindly bearing the shame of your ignorance
Be forced to serve the old inferior masters,
Like appetite, time, and illness
Where you may no longer drink clarity like water
But be drowned in the roar of your old life
Shaking your fist at God’s unsmiling face?
Tell me, does not the very thought make you
Question their ways
Or question why you were made this way?”
“Perhaps,” you said again, with a peace which surpassed
“But perhaps he will leave us—oh I don’t know—clues,
In that way He always does
That will lead us back to this shore
When we will be reminded—just so—why we had to leave.
But look: time is drawing near. You must go.”
And when I count the days and years ahead
which I must endure
Before I remember tomorrow
What I have forgotten today
I groan, and feel you groaning with me.
But you would not want that.
So I wash the salt from my mouth and the sand from my nostrils
And stumble, once again, into the yawning dark.
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