ROUTINE Every morning, coming out of sleep into the stark surprise of day, having roamed all night outside of myself in the empty familiarity of dreams, I must put my self back into myself. Before I get out of bed, almost before I blink my eyes. There is a moment at first light, as I am about to do this, poised between an emptiness and the not-yet-full, when I am no one. In these few seconds, no one has his entire day. no one opens his eyes and listens no one stumbles downstairs no one takes in the news no one eats when he is hungry this will be repeated throughout the day no one cleans himself and heads to work no one works no one works till after dark no one goes home tired no one passes the time for a few hours a friend of no one calls sometimes no one has his accomplishments of the day to recall no one is ready for bed no one sleeps and may or may not dream and if he does dream may or may not remember no one's body stirs as the night pales away no one is willing to wake no one must become himself again but for a moment before he does no one is no one
next poem >>