This Side of Morning (for Rachel Wetzsteon)
Simple,
each morning is
a new breath, a small light
gently nudging my pretend death
awake.
I rise
so the day will
know I care, know I try
to meet its loveliness again.
I try
to let
it breathe for me,
to me, its respiring
is me and my air only its,
I know,
but it’s
rough, feels forced, this
remembering always,
never coming naturally
like light
or joy
in the morning
outside of me, where I
can’t quite believe in teacups and
rainstorms,
simple
things to hold dear.
I try to let them help
but there’s no end it seems to the
trying.
