The day arrives, swollen and lethargic.
engorged with all our hopes. (This is
what we get for feeding the future.)
We ourselves are part of it now. It spins
out like the story of our ancestors: slowly.
We check the sun. She seems to have
sat herself down, waiting. On something.
No task seems to pass the hours, though
not for lack of trying: count the bars again,
recite each telephone number and every
bit of Tennyson, Frost, and Keats you
ever memorized, rearrange in your mind
each couch and television in every room
of every one of your apartments, ever.
Because this moment goes on and on.
There’s no getting through it. Just make
yourself comfortable and stop thinking.


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